Love's Journey: Stepping Stones
by The Yankee Countess
Summary: What happened to Sybil and Branson during the "missing years" between Seasons 1 & 2 (late 1914 to early 1916)? A companion story to my main Sybil/Branson fic, "Love's Journey". Begins right after Chapter 40 of that fic and the end of Series 1. (Part of the "Love's Journey Saga"-a *happily ever after* Downton universe)
1. Late Summer, 1914

_Here it is! The promised companion piece to "Love's Journey", exploring the missing years between Series 1 & 2. _

_If you are reading this story without having read "Love's Journey", you may find a few things confusing. Because there is no knowledge of what exactly happened during those missing years (late 1914 to early 1916), a bulk of this story is based off of characters and incidents found in my main fic. I would recommend that you take the time to read it (up to chapter 40); it sets the stage for the chapters and events of this piece. __Just like "Love's Journey", this story will also continue to explore the romance and relationship of Branson and Sybil through letters, diary/journal entries, and POV scenes. _

_This story is meant to be a "short" (my goal is to keep it under 12 chapters), and will cover incidents/events/emotions that so far have been briefly mentioned in "Volume 2" of "Love's Journey" (chapter 41 and higher). _

_FINALLY, I would like to thank all the lovely readers and reviewers who encouraged me to do this; I mentioned it once and many responded with enthusiasm that they would like to see this companion piece, so I dedicate this to all of you and thank you for your wonderful support. I hope you enjoy! Ok, I've ranted enough; happy reading! ~_Yankee Countess

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><p><strong>Love's Journey: <strong>_**Stepping Stones**_

**_By The Yankee Countess_**

**Chapter One**

_Late Summer 1914_

Branson looked up at the pub sign and then back at the small piece of paper in his hand. _The Rat and Parrot._ Despite the name, the place looked tidy and respectable, at least from the outside. He ran a hand through his hair, straightened his jacket, and stepped inside, his eyes squinting as they adjusted to the pub's semi-dark lighting.

"Tom!"

Branson quickly turned his head, recognizing the accent faster than the voice that spoke his name.

There, standing by a small table in a far corner, was a man he had not seen in nearly three years, but who he knew right away. "Martin!"

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" his cousin laughed, before moving quickly to where Branson stood and embracing him. Branson eagerly returned the embrace, joining in his cousin's laughter.

"Come, come, I'll order you a drink!" Martin grinned, guiding Branson to the table he had been occupying. "Guinness? Or perhaps something stronger?"

"A pint of Guinness would be lovely," Branson agreed, taking a good long look at his cousin while Martin made the order. Martin was two years younger than himself, and a few inches shorter. He also had a wild shock of thick, black hair, which only seemed to make his eyes appear even greener. The last time Branson had seen his cousin, he was clean-shaven and a bit on the scrawny side. Now, his arms, shoulders, and chest had broadened, and there appeared to be a thick, black beard growing from his cheeks down to his chin. "Look at you!" Branson laughed, reaching across and slapping Martin on the shoulder. "You've put on some muscle since last I saw you…and what do you call this?" he joked, poking a finger at Martin's bearded chin.

"Ha, ha," Martin answered, although he couldn't hide his own smile. "You haven't changed much."

Branson shrugged his shoulders. "Never was daring enough to attempt to grow a beard," he laughed. "But I must say, I think it suits you."

Martin's smile grew. "Really?" he ran his hand across the beard and grinned. "Rachel told me she likes a man with a beard…thinks it makes me look 'distinguished'."

Branson laughed and thanked the bar maid who brought them their pints. "Ah, so there's the truth of it!" He handed Martin his glass and raised his own as if to offer a toast. "The things we do for love and women…"

The mirth that had been dancing in Martin's eyes suddenly disappeared at Branson's words. Branson could feel his own mirth disappear as soon as the words left his lips. While his cousin forced a smile and nodded his head, awkwardness fell across the table while they both took a drink from their pints. If he could, Branson would kick himself for the thoughtless remark. Even though Martin hadn't said anything in his letter about Branson's confession that he was in love with the daughter of his employer, Branson knew that his cousin disapproved.

Branson had written his letter on the night of the Garden Party, the day of which war had been declared—August 4, 1914. It was August 30 now, and he had only just received a reply from Martin five days prior. That letter had simply read,

_Yes, would still like to see you. Any time within the next two weeks suits me. I'll meet you at a pub near the place I work, _The Rat and Parrot._ They also have some rooms you can rent should you wish to spend the night. Let me know as soon as you are able if you'll come. —Martin_

On a separate sheet of paper Martin provided directions to the pub. And that was it. There was nothing about how he was, or how he and others around him were reacting to the news about the War. And there certainly wasn't any acknowledgement to Branson's declaration of love for Lady Sybil Crawley. Well, no written acknowledgement. It was obvious to Branson that the timing of the letter, the shortness of its length, and the lack of details, spoke volumes to how Martin really felt about the matter. Which was why he had been so surprised (pleasantly so) by Martin's warm reception when he walked through the pub door. The anxiety to which Branson had been feeling while preparing for his journey, traveling to Devon, and walking into the pub, all but disappeared as soon as his cousin laughed and grabbed him in a strong embrace. It was just like old times, the two of them sharing a joke while drinking a pint—God, he didn't realize how much he missed those moments! And he hated himself for ruining it. _Well, it would have been brought up at some point_, he bitterly thought to himself.

"So…" he attempted to lighten the conversation. "Will I be fortunate enough to meet the lovely Rachel?"

"Tom…"

Branson could feel his spirits sinking lower. All that anxiety began rushing back, and once again he began to question his reasoning for coming to Devon.

Mr. Carson had told him many, many months ago that he could take an extended holiday sometime during the months of August or September. The time off would only amount to a week at most, hardly enough time to travel to Dublin, but it would be ample if he chose to visit his cousin. As soon as he had learned this news, he had begun making plans, eager to see some reminder of home, some connection to his past. He had always been close to his cousin; his mother said it was because the two of them were so close in age. No doubt that had a great deal to do with it, but there was more to it as well. They both shared many common interests, including a fascination with cars. The same neighbor that had taught Branson to drive when he was a teenager also taught Martin. They also looked out for each other; whenever one of them got into a scrape, the other was there to help. Between the two of them, Branson was the superior fighter, and therefore better at fending off unwanted bullies. But Martin was better at schemes and the "art of falsehood". Once, in their early teens, they had been cornered by some police for sneaking several bottles of wine from a nearby store cart. Branson remembered gazing up at the men in terror, but Martin, without blinking an eye, immediately launched into an elaborate tale about how their priest was taking Communion to wounded soldiers, recently returned from the Boer War, but upon arriving at the hospital, discovered he didn't have enough wine, and so they were simply being good altar boys, and fetching him some…and by some miracle, the police bought it! That week, Branson went to confession twice—although he failed to go into details why he needed God's forgiveness.

"Thick has thieves, you two," his mother had said once. A wistful smile passed over his face at the memory. When Branson announced he was traveling to England to find work, Martin looked absolutely crushed. But then he got that mischievous glimmer in his eye, and it didn't surprise Branson that his cousin was already concocting some scheme. And low and behold, not a month after he arrived, he learned that Martin had also come to England, and had also found work as a chauffeur.

So there was no question in Branson's mind as to who he would visit and where he would go with his holiday time. But he hadn't anticipated that within the time Mr. Carson had given him the news, and the moment of actually arriving…he would have told Martin _everything_ about his feelings for a particular lady. And if he were completely honest with himself…it hurt that his cousin didn't show any signs of support or understanding.

"Tom…" Martin sighed, looking up from his pint glass and locking Branson's gaze. "There's something…well…there's something I need to tell you."

Branson swallowed the lump in his throat and squared his shoulders. He had told himself over and over on his journey that he should be prepared for Martin's vocal disapproval, not to mention the argument that would surely ensue once it had been voiced. Still, he reminded himself, his cousin cared about him and was naturally worried for him. He couldn't fault anyone for thinking that way; no doubt he would as well, if the situation were reversed. "Go on…" he urged.

Martin ran a hand through his hair and sighed once more, before taking a quick drink from his glass, as if willing the liquid to give him courage to say whatever it was he wanted to say. "It's about…well, it's about your letters."

Branson also took a hefty drink from his own glass. "Are you saying you don't want me to write to you for a while?" He considered saying "ever again", but if that were the case, he wanted Martin to tell him straight forward, and then provide him with reasons which would undoubtedly lead to an argument.

Martin paled at Branson's question. "What? No! God no, nothing like that."

Branson's brow furrowed in confusion…then a nervous laugh escaped his throat. "Well…good!" he chuckled, before taking another drink. "I'm glad to hear that at least…" he lifted his eyes to meet his cousin's, but saw no hint of humor.

"This is serious Tom," he murmured, somewhat gravely.

A cold shiver raced down Branson's spine. This didn't have anything to do with him or his feelings for Sybil. No, the way in which Martin spoke, the way in which he began this turn of the conversation…

"Good God, Martin…don't tell me you…you…" he didn't even know if he could finish the sentence. "You're not serious…surely…you didn't…you didn't enlist—"

"Enlist!" Martin hissed, a look of surprise and disappointment clouding his dark features as he stared at Branson. "You honestly thought I enlisted?"

Branson glanced at the pub's other occupants, but none of them seemed to be paying any attention. To say he was relieved that his cousin wouldn't be joining His Majesty's army to fight for king and country was an understatement. Still, he knew there were a great many patriotic Englishmen who felt differently, and whose pent up tensions were itching for a fight.

"Since when did I ever go looking for a fight?" Martin muttered, before taking a drink. "Come on, Tom, you know me better than that. You're the fighter, not me. You're the political anarchist, when I could care less!"

"Socialist," Branson corrected.

"Whatever," Martin grumbled. "No, this has nothing to do with the War. Give me some credit, please!"

Branson inwardly groaned, but chose to keep his thoughts to himself. "Then please…tell me. Enlighten me on what you're trying to say."

Martin sighed and took one last, long drink from his glass, before pushing himself away from the table, as if preparing to rise and leave. "I'm going back."

Branson's eyes, which had been narrowed in confusion by his cousin's mysteriousness, suddenly widened in surprise. "You're leaving?"

"Aye," Martin sighed.

"Are you serious? I come all this way, and now you're going back to the house without a by your leave—"

"What in God's name are you talking about, Tom?" Martin interrupted, now wearing the look of confusion Branson had been wearing earlier.

"I just got here, we haven't seen each other in years, and we've barely had much of a conversation, and now you want to go back to your home—"

"Yes, I _do_ want to go back home!" Martin hissed, leaning across the table until his face was in Branson's. "Home…to _Ireland!"_

Branson sat frozen, his cousin's words slowly washing over him. "Ireland?" he finally murmured.

Martin nodded his head. "Aye…remember it? It's our _home_," he emphasized, his voice taking on a somewhat bitter edge. "It's where we belong."

They both sat in silence for a moment, staring at the last of the Guinness that settled in Branson's glass. Hundreds of questions were flitting through his head at Martin's declaration, the main one being "why?"

Martin leaned back in his chair and sighed, before folding his arms across his chest. "I can't believe you thought I was talking about Devon—"

"I can't believe you're seriously considering leaving," Branson muttered in his defense. He too leaned back in his chair and also folded his arms across his chest. "I thought you liked it here. What about your job, and the money you were earning—"

"I'll get another one in Ireland," Martin grumbled. "There are plenty of posh snobs looking for drivers."

"Aye, but will they pay as good?" Branson countered. "And what about Rachel? Have you told her your plans? Is she coming with you?" Martin flinched, and Branson could tell he had hit a weak spot.

"She's not the _only_ girl in the world," he muttered under his breath.

Branson never felt so much disgust for someone he loved. "Does she know _that_, at least?"

Martin couldn't look him in the eye. He grabbed his empty pint glass as if to take a drink, only to put it back down in frustration.

Branson sighed and shook his head. "This was Uncle Michael's idea, wasn't it? To drop everything and return to Ireland?" Martin glanced at him and Branson could see his cousin's answer. "Oh Martin…"

"Oh don't start, Tom," Martin muttered. "Now that war has started, Da makes an excellent point."

"I'm sure he does," Branson muttered back, pushing his own empty glass out of the way in frustration. "No doubt he assumes that the 'wicked English' will swoop down and grab you up and 'force' you to join their army."

"Why not?" Martin defended. "They've done it before!"

"No, they've bore down on us and 'encouraged' us to join, but they've never, literally, forced us," Branson corrected. "Besides, as a servant you have to first have permission from your employer before you can join. And there are plenty of eager and foolish young lads ready to step in and sign up, that they have no need for conscription! You're better off here than back home!"

Martin shook his head. "No need for conscription…_yet_, Tom."

Another cold shiver ran down Branson's spine. He had a suspicious feeling his cousin was right, but he didn't want to focus on that, at least not right now. "Look, if you truly want to go back to Ireland…then go. But do it because it's what _you_ want to do—not because someone else says you must, and then uses guilt and fear to drive you there."

It was obvious that Martin resented those last words, but he didn't say anything, he merely looked out a nearby window. Branson sighed, and wearily rose from the table to order two more pints. This was not how he wanted the reunion between himself and his cousin to go. He had been prepared for criticism and censure; he had been prepared for Martin to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, asking if he was daft. But he hadn't imagined the two of them arguing over the matter of whether one of them would stay in England, or go back to Dublin. It had been nearly three years since the two of them had seen each other; how long would it be if Martin went back to Ireland?

"You know Da never supported the idea of me coming here," Martin sighed after some silence had passed. "Say what you will Tom, about guilt and fear, but you haven't had to deal with his letters." Branson winced, knowing what his cousin was talking about. His uncle was a fearsome man, known for flying into a rage over the littlest thing. He also had a hard time trusting others, and if he didn't understand something, then he immediately declared it as being no good. The man had always been like this, but ever since his wife, Martin's mother, had died in 1910, he had steadily gotten worse.

"Every month it's the same; l receive a letter, and the same questions are asked in each one: when are you coming home? When will you come to your senses and return to the family you abandoned?" The bar maid brought them their pints, and Martin grabbed his and took a long, deep drink. "Lately, his letters have gotten worse. I receive one nearly every fortnight, sometimes twice. And after war was declared…" his voice trailed off, and Branson felt his heart swell with pity. He hadn't thought about the burden Martin was carrying when it came to Uncle Michael. "He blames you, of course," Martin muttered, before taking another deep drink.

"Nothing new about that," Branson sighed. "I've always been Uncle Michael's scapegoat."

A tiny smile lifted at the corners of Martin's lips, but his eyes were downcast, gazing into the dark depths of his pint. "He would never accept Rachel."

Branson felt his jaw clench at the despair he could hear in his cousin's voice. Despite the words Martin had uttered earlier, it was obvious that the man _was_ head over heels in love with the raven-haired housemaid he had written about all those months ago. It pained Branson to see his cousin in such a hopeless state; and it angered him that Martin was allowing his father to dictate his future.

_That will never be me,_ he furiously thought. _No matter what others might think or say, I will not abandon my heart's desire. I will not let _anyone_ tell me how to live my life…or whom to spend the rest of my days with. _

Another long silence passed between them, neither looking at the other, neither acknowledging the words that had been spoken, or voicing the thoughts that were running through their heads. They sat and drank in silence until the last drop of Guinness had disappeared.

"When do you leave?" Branson finally asked, pushing his empty glass away from him.

Martin finished his drink and leaned back in his chair. "The end of September."

_That soon,_ Branson thought. Martin wasn't even going to finish the year in Devon; he was leaving as soon as he would be able to.

"Come with me, Tom."

Branson's eyes shot up to his cousin's face, the color draining from his own. Did Martin just ask…?

Indeed he had, for Martin was leaning on the edge of his chair, his eyes lit with hope and the mirth he had shown upon Branson's arrival. "Come back to Ireland with me," he grinned. "It will be just like old times! We'll find jobs in Dublin…or someplace else. Maybe Killarney, Shannon, Cork…" His smile was growing wider by the second. "We'll get a flat together; spend our nights at the pub, charming the ladies and getting into scrapes. Can't you see it? Two roguish bachelors—"

"Martin, stop," Branson held up a hand, his own face showing none of the mirth his cousin was feeling. "I…I…I can't go back."

The light went out from Martin's eyes, and his smile disappeared altogether. A shadow clouded his features and he leaned back in his chair once more. "Can't…or won't?"

Branson ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Is there a difference?"

Martin groaned and shook his head. "Good God, Tom…you can't be serious! You _know_ nothing can come of it!"

So they _were_ going to have this conversation. Well, he had been prepared for it. "I _don't_ know that."

Martin gaped at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Are you mad? Have you completely lost your mind?" He leaned forward so no one around them could hear. "Not only is she the daughter of your employer, but she's an aristocrat!" he hissed. "And you're just a servant!"

Branson felt himself bristle at Martin's words, but he forced himself to ignore them. "You don't know her, Martin—"

"I don't have to know her," Martin interrupted. "I know what she is, and that's enough. So what if she's progressive? So what if she believes in equality between the classes? So what if she even _likes_ you, it doesn't change a thing! You're still a working class Irishman, and she's still the posh daughter of an English noble! NOTHING will _ever_ come of it!" He leaned back in his chair, his chest rising and falling with each embittered breath. "And you know I'm right."

Branson's eyes hadn't left Martin's during the whole tirade. His hands were clamped together to keep his temper at bay and his fists from flying. "Even if I believed you, and I'm not saying that I do…but even if I did…I still wouldn't go."

Martin's anger and frustration seemed to instantly melt into sympathy and pity. "Oh Tom…" he sighed. "Why torture yourself? What good is it to give yourself false hope?"

Branson let out a long, shaky breath. How could he make his cousin understand? They both were head over heels in love with two very different, but very special women. However, unlike his cousin, Branson didn't see an impossible future. Unlike his cousin, Branson had faith.

"I mean…has she given you any indication that…that she feels the same way you do?" Martin asked.

He immediately recalled the Garden Party, how the two of them stood side by side while Gwen explained her good news to the stern housekeeper, and how the world suddenly came to a halt when Sybil reached over and took his hand in hers. It was a small gesture, one that had not been repeated since…but it was enough to give him hope that perhaps Lady Sybil Crawley truly did see him more than just a chauffeur. And even more than just a very good friend.

"I honestly don't know what she feels," Branson sighed. He could hope all he wanted that she saw him as something more, but the truth of the matter was that he honestly didn't know. And he didn't feel confident enough to confront her about it, at least not yet. "But…I do know that I'm not ready to leave her."

Martin shook his head and looked down at the empty glass before him. "I don't understand you, Tom. I'm trying, but…I just don't understand it. It's masochistic, if you ask me."

Branson couldn't help but smile a little at his cousin's words. That was exactly what the rational part of him had been saying for months. "Maybe," he conceded. "And maybe you're right; maybe I'm simply setting myself up for biggest heartbreak known to man." Mrs. Hughes' words came rushing back at him in that moment. _Be careful my lad; or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart. _But as he had then, he pushed those words aside and looked directly into Martin's eyes. "But right now, I'd rather risk facing that pain, than a day when I won't see her face or hear her voice. If I leave now, I know I'll always wonder 'what would have happened if I had stayed?' And that speculation would cause me far more suffering than any broken heart ever could."

Another silence passed between them, each holding the gaze of the other. Branson kept his head high and his jaw tight, even though he could feel pain ripping at his gut. He had spoken his mind and his heart; he was being true to himself. But it had come at a cost, for he knew things would never be the same between himself and Martin after this day.

Martin sighed, and then leaned across the table and gripped one of Branson's shoulders. "Then I wish you the best, Tom," he murmured, a small smile forcing its way across his face. "I truly do."

Branson swallowed the emotional lump in his throat and mirrored his cousin by also gripping Martin's shoulder. "And I wish you the best as well. I hope you'll be happy, back home."

Martin smiled, although it was one full of sadness. "I'll try. And I'll write you as soon as I'm settled."

"You better," Branson chuckled, trying to bring some light-hearted humor back into their reunion. "Or I'll sic Kathleen on you!"

Martin laughed, a genuine laugh, and Branson felt his heart warm at the sound, even though at the same time it was mourning the loss of his dear cousin and friend. Even though Martin was nowhere near Yorkshire, it had always provided Branson with some comfort knowing that a family member was there, in the same land as he. Now, he truly would be alone…

"Want another round?" Martin asked, pointing to his empty glass. Branson nodded his head, eager now, more than ever, to laugh, get drunk, and push the reality of the situation far away. When the bar maid returned with full glasses, Martin lifted his in a toast. "To the future! May it bring good health and happiness to us all."

Branson nodded his head and lifted his glass. Indeed, he prayed that the future would bring more health and happiness to everyone he cared for, and that the uncertainty of it all with the looming war on the horizon, would soon become a distant memory. He prayed that it wouldn't take years until he saw his cousin again, or any of his beloved family. He prayed that Martin would find strength to overcome the regret he was sure to face in the weeks to come. And most of all, he clung to the hope that Sybil's tiny hand had given him all those weeks ago, at the Downton Garden Party.

Because it was that small glimmer of hope, that was truly getting him by each and every day.

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><p><em>Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!<em>


	2. Autumn, 1914

_Thanks to everyone who read my opening chapter, and a BIG thank you to those who took the time to review! Please let me know your thoughts, every author loves to receive feedback! Now onto the next chapter, a letter to a former housemaid..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

_Autumn 1914_

**To:** Miss Gwen Dawson, _Secretary Extraordinaire_

Dear Miss Dawson; on behalf of the women of Great Britain, and in particular Lady Sybil Crawley, may we say congratulations on your wondrous achievement and the completion of your first full month as a secretary. Indeed, this is a call for celebration; even during times of uncertainty, you strived forward in hopes of making your dream a reality. Your dedication and hard work is an inspiration to women everywhere! So not only do we say congratulations, but we also say…_thank you._

I hope that by now, you are grinning as broadly as I am! Oh Gwen, thank you so much for writing to me and telling me how things are! I miss you so much, and cling to every word Anna tells me when I ask her how you are doing. Downton just isn't the same without you…but by no means am I saying this to guilt you! Heaven forbid! I cannot deny that there were times in the past where I was quite envious of your choice to seek opportunities beyond the ones presented to you; oh Gwen, if I were in your shoes, I believe I would have done the same thing and sought any chance to escape this place! Oh laugh all you want, but I do mean it—congratulations! You deserve it.

But one thing I must address right away…

Enough with this "milady" business! You are no longer an employee of Downton Abbey, and I insist, absolutely insist, that from here on out…you simply refer to me as "Sybil". After all, we are friends, are we not? And isn't that how friends should address one another? So please, call me Sybil and if you do not mind…continue writing and telling me everything about the job, about your new flat, about...oh, like I said _EVERYTHING!_ I want to hear it all!

I am sure you are kept very busy; no doubt the War has caused many others to consider the installation of a telephone into their homes. I am very glad we have it here, but I must also confess that whenever it rings, especially as of late, I jump and feel my heart race with anxiety, wondering what news has come for Papa. Lately he spends a great deal of the evenings on the telephone, talking to generals and other military officers he once knew back when he was a soldier. It infuriates Mama, but Papa insists it is necessary, that he wants to stay on top of all the news about the War as much as possible.

Indeed, even though it is only a few months old, the War has left its mark here on Downton. Forgive me for repeating "old news"; no doubt you've already heard it from Anna's pen. Several more young men came to Papa the other day, seeking permission to go and enlist. These men were all field hands or gardeners; seems Mrs. Patmore has been able to keep a majority of the boys who work in the kitchens at bay, at least for the time being. It's so strange, seeing these men enter the house after a long day of toil in the harvest fields, each one grinning from ear to ear as if they are excited to go into battle! I confess, excitement is not the emotion I am feeling; is something wrong with me, Gwen? There are posters on every corner of the village, proudly displaying His Majesty's face, who is pointing outward and declaring that "he wants you" to come forward and serve. Does such an image immediately stir men into a feeling of excitement? I can understand the drive, the passionate feeling of doing all one can to step forward and help—but I still would not call it "excitement". Does that make me less patriotic?

I know what you are thinking. "These are questions best suited for Branson," am I right? Since war was declared, he and I have had very little time to talk, sadly. He has been very busy as of late. Papa takes many trips back and forth to York, which means that when poor Branson isn't driving, he's sleeping due to sheer exhaustion. Earlier, late last month, he went to visit a cousin of his, who works in Devon. Forgive me this moment of selfishness, but I must confess that I found that week to be utterly excruciating, because now _both_ of you were gone! Oh but the pain on his face when he returned; I can't deny that I was watching the road practically every hour, waiting to see him walking down it towards the house. And when I finally did see him from an upstairs window, well I cannot deny that I was most "unladylike" in my quick dash down the stairs, eager to race outside and greet him.

…Because he's a good friend, of course. I mean, I would do the same for you if I saw you walking down the road towards the house! I…well, I simply would. Anyway, I've gotten away from the point. My eager smile quickly faded upon seeing the troubled and pained expression he wore. I confess I was rather blunt, asking him what was wrong, if something had happened to his cousin. I could just kick myself, Gwen, for my lack of consideration! But he was kind, as always, and held nothing against me. He told me that his cousin will be going home, back to Ireland. I am sure it is related to the War; I wonder, if I were in his cousin's shoes, and living in a land that was not my home…would I do the same? I cannot blame his cousin for making the choice that he made, but I could tell that Branson felt otherwise. I shouldn't say that, that sounds cruel; I could tell that Branson was very upset at the thought of his cousin going away. Even though Devon is not next door, it is closer than Ireland. And while Ireland is not that far away…I'm sure it can feel like a million miles. And I wonder if Branson felt a little homesick? I wonder if he is contemplating the same thing…

I don't know what I would do if he left. I…I can't blame him if he wanted to go, but at the same time I…I…I would miss him so much, just as I miss you, I…

Oh Lord, how selfish I sound! Forgive me, Gwen, this was not how I wanted your letter to sound. Anyway, it has been a little over a month since Branson's trip to Devon, and in the few times that we have had the chance to speak, he has made no mention of returning to Ireland. And he has also made no mention about enlisting…which—and I _know_ I will sound selfish for saying this—does fill me with some relief.

My cousin, Matthew Crawley, enlisted. Just last week, in fact. We haven't seen him since the Garden Party. If you recall, he originally came from Manchester, and returned to work in his office there. His mother still resides at Crawley House, and it was she that came to tell us the news. I've never seen so many people go pale all at once. Mary quickly rose to her feet, and left the room without a word or backwards glance. Mama, Edith, and Granny looked utterly stunned, and if Papa were not there, I think the rest of us would still be sitting there, looking absolutely aghast. I can't say that I'm surprised my cousin enlisted; he's the sort of man that would do that. But I think what shocked us all, was how he went about doing it. Meaning, that it was surprising…as well as a little painful, to be hearing this from his mother, and not from my cousin, himself. I can't help but wonder if he would have said anything to us? Was it his idea to have Cousin Isobel share the news? Or was it simply her own? Has my cousin turned his back upon our family? No doubt you can guess why I wonder this; I remember several late night conversations where I shared with you my speculation on Mary and Matthew's relationship. And I thank you for your continued discretion on the matter; I know I can trust you.

Poor Mary; she would never admit it, sadly (she's that stubborn) but I think she was the most hurt by this news. I can tell her heart is utterly broken, but in her mind, what's done is done. I love my sister, and I would never tell her how to live her life (Lord knows she's had enough of that from my parents and Granny!) but I know she's making the biggest mistake of her life! It may seem degrading and humiliating, but I truly think she needs to go to Manchester and beg Matthew's forgiveness. Tell him how much she loves him, and how sorry she is for her foolishness in making him wait. I do believe he would listen to her, and I do believe he loves her just as fiercely, that he wouldn't turn her away. There's still time! Cousin Isobel said he wouldn't be leaving for Richmond until the end of the month…

But I know my sister. And I fear she would sacrifice her heart to save her pride.

Gwen, as you are my witness, I hope I never make such a mistake. And if I do, please remind me of this letter, and proceed to tell me what a fool I'm being.

…Although I do sometimes wonder if…

Gwen…have you ever…forgive me, I know this is very personal, but…have you ever…do you think you've ever…been in love? If so, how do you know? _When_ do you know? Does it suddenly hit you? Or…can it be gradual? Is there a difference between a…a um, a crush, and love? What I mean is, a crush isn't…isn't serious…is it? Girls have crushes all the time! And at young ages too! How many little girls think themselves in love with a handsome man, simply because he smiled at her or held her hand while helping in and out of a car? Surely that's not love…is it? I mean, can a crush be _more?_ Have you had crushes, Gwen? Were they serious? I mean, did you think something could happen? Or…did you know deep down that it was hopeless? Well, maybe not hopeless, but…but you know that's all it could be, a crush…

I um…I only ask because…because of an interesting book I borrowed, from Edith. She and I were talking about this subject and…I wanted to get another person's perspective! So…any answer you can give me, if you don't mind, would be wonderful. I promise I will be just as discreet with your secrets as you have been with mine.

Well, I should end this letter before it becomes a novel! But thank you, again, for writing to me, and I hope we can continue writing to each other, my dear friend! As I said, I want to hear everything, even the parts that you think are tedious and boring; I don't care! Tell me _everything! _

Oh Gwen, I truly mean it…I do so admire you. I hope one day I can be just as brave as you are, in pursuing and following through with my dreams.

God bless you! I wish you the very best in everything!

—Sybil


	3. Christmastide, 1914

_Hooray for quick updates! I was so inspired by the wonderful feedback that you all sent that I sat right down and wrote this today. After the Christmas Special aired, I was like "WAIT! They have Servant's Balls? You mean we could have had Sybil & Branson dancing together?" So I had to answer that frustrating revelation with this chapter...it won't be the last of it's kind ;o)_

_Once again, thank you all so much for your readership and feedback! I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

_Christmastide 1914_

The clock chimed midnight, but no one seemed to notice. They were too busy laughing, drinking sherry, and trying to put on a happy demeanor, while the world outside raged, both there…and across the Channel.

It was snowing quite heavily, and Sybil felt sorry for the poor gardeners who would have to shovel the path before retreating to the warmth of their beds. She couldn't blame them for wanting to delay the task, so naturally they continued dancing and drinking, doing whatever they could to warm their bones before facing the white monster outside. She couldn't blame anyone for wanting to live within the bubble that was the Downton Servant's Ball, a reminder of what life had been like before war erupted.

Had it only been a few weeks ago that Sybil had witnessed yet another squabble between her mother and grandmother over the issue of the ball? Her mother wondered if it were in good taste; the patriotic excitement that had been all the rage a few months prior was beginning to dwindle. Horrible stories about collapsing trenches, poison gas, and guns that fired multiple bullets at lightning speed were whispered amongst the servants, who knew _someone_ fighting on the Continent. And the list of those dead or dying was beginning to outgrow the list of injured. Why only a week ago, Sybil had received news that Mr. Ewing, the first man she had danced with at her coming out ball, had been killed. She wasn't close to the gentleman, and the message had been more for her parents rather than herself, but it still had shaken her to the point where she had to excuse herself from the breakfast table and find a quiet corner to sit and take it all in. Someone she knew, someone she had touched once…was dead. For these reasons, her mother argued that perhaps the Servant's Ball should be canceled, to show respect to those connected to Downton, that no ball would be held until each and every one of them had returned.

Her grandmother felt differently. In her mind, the Servant's Ball represented a light of hope during dark times such as this. And what could bring more joy and happiness than a ball around Christmas? Sybil was in the drawing room during this argument/conversation, attempting to sew a pair of socks; it was "all the rage", apparently. "It means so much to our young men of arms to receive a pair of hand-sewn socks from ladies such as yourself and your sisters," her grandmother had explained. Mary and Edith simply smiled and did the task, knowing better than she to argue with the true matriarch of the family. Sybil, whose needlework always brought shame upon her governess, grumbled while attempting to sew her quota. She doubted her socks would bring any joy to the poor soldier they landed upon. It would mean far more to him if he _didn't_ have them.

As she sewed the argument between the two countesses escalated until Mrs. Hughes purposefully interrupted with a tea tray, even though none had been called. That was when Granny unleashed her best artillery, turning to the housekeeper and saying, "don't you think everyone would appreciate a sign of stability during these uncertain times?" Sybil felt so sorry for Mrs. Hughes, who looked back and forth between her grandmother and mother, as if wondering whose wrath would hurt more if she sided with the other. That was when her mother threw her arms up in the air and muttered her consent, before stalking off in search of her father to complain to. Naturally, Granny was beaming.

"She really ought to be a general," Sybil had murmured under her breath to Mrs. Hughes.

The housekeeper nodded her head. "The War would be over within a fortnight!"

Sybil didn't know whose side to take in the argument. While she agreed with her mother's sentiment about showing respect to those who had gone to fight, at the same time she felt a thrill run down her spine at the thought of the ball…

She wasn't one who generally cared for balls, mainly because she knew very few people at them and it seemed that most of the talk that went on at a ball had very little depth. It was all idle gossip, and commentary on the various gowns women were wearing. But this wasn't just any ball. While some of those aspects would be present, such as gossip about various people, and commentary on what people were wearing, Sybil could safely say that she knew practically everyone who would be in attendance. And she could safely say that there would be at least one person to whom she could have a meaningful conversation with…

Like a giddy schoolgirl, she all but abandoned her sewing project and walked very briskly to the garage, knowing Branson was there because her father, for the first time in weeks, hadn't ordered the motor to take him to York. "We're to have a ball!" she declared, her face glowing as she found him, bent over the engine of a car.

Branson lifted his head, a confused expression on his face, but a smile glowing in the blue-green depths of his eyes. "Beggin' your pardon?" he chuckled.

Sybil couldn't help but grin back at him. It seemed so rare these days, having the chance to sit and talk with him as they used to before the War started. They were both so busy; he doing his job for her father, and she…doing whatever she could to feel useful. "I have just come from the trench that is the Downton drawing room; Mama surrendered to Granny over the issue of the Servant's Ball. We are to have it!"

A deep blush spread across her face. She had never shown this sort of excitement over a ball before, including the Servant's Ball. In the past, she had gone because it was tradition, and she had danced a few dances with various servants, including Carson, who felt it was his duty to dance with each lady of the house. But she spent most of the time sitting in a corner, keeping Granny company because Granny couldn't dance a great deal; "not as young as I used to be!" she would say.

But things were different now.

Now…she had a reason to be excited about the ball.

Last year, Sybil had been ill and unable to attend the ball. She had spent a great portion of the Christmas holiday in bed with a small fever and a congested head. Her mind had wandered several times to the ball; she could hear the music floating up the stairway to her room. She wondered who all had come, and who was dancing with whom. And yes, if she were honest with herself, she even wondered about a particular chauffeur; it was his first Christmas at Downton, and he had told her in the weeks leading up to it that he was feeling a little homesick. Sybil remembered begging Branson to tell her what they did in Ireland at Christmas, and she remembered him laughing and grinning, and then scratching his head, trying to think on where to start. She loved those stories, the ones where he told her about his home and childhood; she could picture him quite clearly as a boy, getting into mischief! When she had finally recovered, the first place she visited was the garage. He teased her, as was his nature, and she poked her tongue out at him and pretended to swat him with her fist. And after they had finished laughing, she finally asked him what he thought about his first Christmas at Downton. He smiled and told her that while it wasn't the same as being home with his family, he had enjoyed himself. And after a little more hedging, Sybil finally asked him what he thought of the Servant's Ball…

"Are your feet still sore?" she had casually asked, while pretending to be interested in his chauffeur's toolbox. "No doubt you were one of the more popular dance partners at the ball." She snuck a glance his way through her lashes, and was surprised to see him grinning, before letting out a deep, loud laugh.

"Oh Lord almighty," he chuckled. "If my mother could hear you say that, milady! 'Popular dance partner'…she would be laughing even harder than I am!"

Sybil couldn't help but scowl, slightly. He hadn't answered her question. He just continued laughing! Still…as in the past, his laughter was quite catching, and she soon found herself laughing too. "Well?" she managed to ask. She wasn't going to be deterred from finding her answer.

Branson finally got a hold of himself, but his grin never faltered. "I didn't go, milady."

Sybil stared at him, surprised by his answer. "Didn't go?" She thought the Servant's Ball was required? "Were you ill too?"

He continued grinning, but shook his head. "No, no, I was perfectly fine."

She couldn't shake her confusion. "Then…why?"

His teasing grin seemed to transform into something else…something tender. "What point was there in going, when you wouldn't be there?"

Sybil's mouth fell open at his words. She was at an utter loss. But she remembered her heartbeat suddenly speeding, and her cheeks suddenly burning…

William arrived then, telling Branson that her father wanted the motor. Not knowing what to say, and fearing she would embarrass herself further, Sybil muttered a goodbye, before retreating to the house. However, her mind thought of nothing else for the rest of that day…and the days that followed.

Now it was a year later, and once again, she was standing in the garage. But unlike last year, she was in excellent health and would be able to attend the ball.

Branson smiled, but his eyes did not reflect the excitement she was feeling. Sybil bit her lip, and began to feel her spirits fall. Was she imagining things? Her feelings confused her now, more than ever. Just when she thought she had a grasp on what they were and possibly meant…

"I'm happy for you, milady," he murmured. "And for the staff too, of course," he quickly added. "They will be very happy with a ball; I think her Ladyship was right to insist upon it."

Sybil's face fell even more. She hadn't missed how he had referred to the staff…as if he weren't a part of them. "Yes, I think you're right," she agreed, her eyes never leaving his face. She noticed that he was avoiding her gaze. "But…what about you?"

"Me?" he asked, finally meeting her gaze.

Sybil nodded. "Yes…are you happy, about the ball?"

Branson put on a smile for her benefit. "Of course I am," he forced the grin, but it soon slipped away. Once more, he turned his gaze back to the engine he was working on. "I um…I will be sad to miss it."

"What?" Sybil gasped, rushing over to the other side of the car and gripping its edges. "What do you mean? Why will you miss it?" The confusion on her face suddenly melted into a look of horror. "Oh God…you…you're…" her palms were so sweaty that they were slipping off the sides of the car. "You've…enlisted?"

Branson's eyes went wide, and he reached across the car and gripped her shoulders, giving her a good shake to keep her from fainting, because in that moment, that was exactly what Sybil felt like doing. Branson going to war…Branson in a trench…Branson gripping his throat and coughing as poison gas filled his lungs—

"SYBIL!"

She gasped and looked up into his eyes, surprised by the loud shout and the harsh shake he had given her. But she was thankful for it, because it revived her from the horrid images that had been clouding her mind, and brought her back to the present.

"I didn't enlist," he calmly reassured, although his tone was clipped and his fingers never once loosened the somewhat painful grip on her shoulders. She didn't care; it kept her grounded and reminded her that he wasn't in one of those horrible trenches, but standing right there, safe in their haven. "Do you understand me? Please…nod your head at least, so I know I'm getting through to you."

His voice sounded so desperate, and Sybil felt like a fool for just standing there like a mute doll. "I understand," she reassured, nodding her head at the same time. "I understand."

A look of relief washed over him, and he loosened his harsh grip. "Sorry," he murmured. Sybil opened her mouth to tell him it was alright, but all thought of speaking escaped her…as his fingers began to rub soothing strokes across her shoulders and upper arms.

Butterflies danced in her stomach. Her heart did several somersaults. Had she forgotten how to breathe? Because when he looked into her eyes, she swore nothing passed through her lungs. They held one another's gazes, and his fingers stilled their soothing massage…before finally, and much to Sybil's disappointment, they fell away. A great gush of air escaped her body then, and her breathing began to resume once more.

"My sister Kathleen is getting married," he explained.

Sybil realized that he was explaining his reasons to why he would miss the ball. "So…so you're going to Ireland?"

He nodded his head. "I received the announcement a few days ago; I went to his Lordship this morning, asking if I could take an extended holiday," he looked down at his feet. "He was very kind and generous, I must say. Said I could go and stay during all of Christmastide."

All of Christmastide; December 25 to January 6. The Servant's Ball was traditionally held on Twelfth Night. He wouldn't be back until _after_ the ball.

"Well," Sybil took a step back and forced a smile, trying to make it look as convincing as possible. "That's wonderful!"

Branson smiled softly, but he still continued to look down at his feet. "Yes," he sighed. "It's been a long time, since I've seen all of them."

Sybil nodded her head, doing her best to keep her disappointment at bay. "And you will be able to see your cousin again, too! That's wonderful!" She inwardly groaned, realizing she had already said that. But Branson didn't seem to notice, and she felt awful for being so selfish and thinking only of her own disappointment that he would miss the ball…and her opportunity to dance with him…that she quickly pressed on. "How long has your sister been engaged?" She could kick herself for the lack of tact and consideration; her mother would be horrified by her bluntness.

"Nearly two years," Branson answered, not seeming to mind the forwardness.

"Two years!" Sybil gasped. Long engagements were not the fashion, it seemed. How many of her sisters' friends, who had received proposals during their seasons, were married before the year ended? At most they would wait a year, so the wedding could be held during the following season. But it seemed that the sooner the wedding could take place, the better. "Little time for 'second thoughts'," her grandmother had explained.

Branson nodded his head. "Sean is a good, patient man," he smiled. "And he adores my sister, which is what matters to me, of course."

Sybil felt her insides warm at the way he spoke, his voice full of love and brotherly protection. When she was little she had wished for a brother; someone who wouldn't mind getting dirty and playing sports, unlike her refined sisters.

"They've been saving for a house," he explained. "She told me that they have enough money to buy a pretty brownstone, in Dublin."

Sybil smiled and nodded her head. "Well, their waiting paid off, it seems."

Branson chuckled. "Indeed. But what's two years when you love someone?"

Time froze then as they both met and held each other's gazes.

Then the sound of footsteps crunching on the frost-covered gravel outside broke the spell, and Sybil quickly retreated to the garage door, opening it so William could enter. "Thank you, milady," he gave her a small bow, before turning to Branson and telling him that her mother wanted the car. _Just like last year,_ she thought to herself. It seemed that the younger footman was destined to come "to the rescue" whenever an awkward moment fell upon them both.

"Well..." Branson sighed, shutting the bonnet and reaching for his livery jacket.

"Yes…" Sybil sighed too, unsure what to say exactly. What else was there to say? He would be going to Ireland for his sister's wedding and she would be here, spending Christmas with her family, and just like previous years, sitting in a corner at the Servant's Ball, keeping her grandmother company.

Only this year…like the year prior…she had been looking forward to going, and dancing with a particular servant, other than the Downton butler.

And so here she sat…on Twelfth Night, listening to people laugh and make merry, while she occupied a chair in the corner, like all those previous years. Except unlike previous years, there were more "wallflowers" than usual. It made sense, sadly; many young men had enlisted.

"Sybil dear, I don't think I've seen you dance once!" her grandmother admonished, just to the right of her.

She turned her head to her grandmother and once again, forced a smile. She had been doing that throughout the entire Christmas holiday, and by now thought she was getting rather good at it. "I think I had too much pudding at dinner, Granny; my stomach is a little sore."

"Oh you and pudding," her grandmother grumbled. Sybil's fake smile disappeared into a frown, but she didn't have time to rebuke, because Carson was standing before her and bowing.

"May I have the honor of this dance, milady?"

"Oh go on," Granny urged. "It will do your figure some good."

Sybil bit her lip to keep herself from hurling back an insult, and forced another sweet smile, this time at Carson, before taking his hand and allowing him to lead her to the dance floor. She could dance at least one dance, for tradition's sake, with the butler.

"A fine party," Carson congratulated, as if she had anything to do with it.

"Yes, I do think Mrs. Hughes did a fine job in organizing it," Sybil agreed.

Was it her imagination? Or had Carson stumbled slightly at the mention of the housekeeper's name? "Yes, well…" he cleared his throat. "And her Ladyship, of course," he added quickly. Oh Carson; loyal to the end, giving all the credit to those above him.

"I beg your pardon, milady, but may I speak freely?"

Sybil was surprised by Carson's question, but she quickly nodded her head_. This should be good._

"You seem to be in a state of…low spirits," he explained.

Ever observant. "I think I ate too much pudding at dinner," Sybil explained, choosing to go with her previous lie.

Carson pursed his lips, his brow only furrowing further. "Beg your pardon, milady, but…I am not merely speaking of this evening. You seem to have been in low spirits for…quite some time now."

He wasn't wrong, but she couldn't very well tell him the reason, now could she? _Yes Carson, I am in low spirits; I have been ever since I learned Branson would not be able to attend the Servant's Ball. I've only waited to dance with him for a year. And the only time he and I have danced have been in my dreams…_

Her cheeks burned as she recalled that all too vivid dream, the night after her coming out ball.

"It's the War," Sybil explained. That wasn't entirely untruthful. "They had said it would be over by Christmas…and yet here we are, in a new year, and it still rages on."

Her answer seemed to satisfy the butler, although it made Sybil feel incredibly guilty. She would ask for God's forgiveness later, before going to bed. "I have no doubt our English boys will come out victorious, milady."

She tried to smile at his words, but she didn't have Carson's blind faith. "Perhaps; but how long will that be? How many will have to suffer until that victory is won? And what about the others?"

Carson's brow furrowed. "Others, milady?"

Sybil nodded her head. "Yes; you mentioned 'our English boys', but what about our allies? Or our Welsh boys, our Scottish boys, our…" her voice caught, "…our Irish boys?" She needed to retreat to her room. She could feel the sobs building up in her chest, ready to explode like a blubbering mass.

Carson looked down at her with sympathetic eyes. Sybil was surprised by the look; it was one he normally reserved for Mary, and Mary alone. "You have a great heart, milady," he murmured with reverence. "I won't pretend I understand half of the 'causes' you rally behind, or that I agree with all of them…but…I cannot deny that I do admire your courage, and your steadfast heart."

Sybil felt a few tears run down her cheeks. It was the sweetest thing the old butler had ever said to her. "Thank you, Carson," she managed to say, wrapping her arms around the man's waist and giving him a fierce hug, before turning and retreating from the room, trying her best not to make a scene. She wanted to be alone right now.

Upon reaching her room, she was surprised to see a small figure, kneeling in a corner by the fireplace, attempting to light the evening fire. "Daisy?"

The kitchen maid gasped and leapt to her feet. "Oh! I…I…I'm sorry, milady! I thought I still had time before anyone came upstairs—"

"It's alright," Sybil reassured. "I was just surprised. I thought you would be at the ball?"

Daisy shook her head. "Well, I was, briefly, but…I needed to get this done and your room is the last and…" her voice trailed off. The poor girl wasn't supposed to be seen upstairs, and she clearly looked shaken.

"Don't worry, Daisy. You just finish your work and then get some rest."

Daisy gave a small curtsey. "Thank you, milady," she whispered, before adding under her breath, "I always said you were nice." Sybil blushed at the girl's words, but didn't want to disrupt her work, so sat down at her dressing table and began removing her jewelry while Daisy finished building the fire. Within a matter of minutes, a fire was roaring to life and quickly warming the room.

"Thank you, Daisy," Sybil smiled as the kitchen maid gathered her supplies. "Goodnight."

Daisy smiled back, and was about to slip out of the room, before pausing and turning back to face Sybil. "Beggin' your pardon, milady…"

Sybil looked up at the girl, surprised. "Yes?"

Daisy nibbled her lip, shifting somewhat uncomfortably on her feet. "I…well…we received a letter this morning…"

"We?"

Daisy nodded her head. "The servants," she explained. "It came from…from Mr. Branson."

Sybil felt her breath catch. Branson had written to them? She missed Gwen terribly, but especially at moments like this. In the past, Branson could have written her a letter and simply send it to Gwen, who would make sure she received it. Now that Gwen was gone, Sybil wasn't sure who she could trust as deeply to exchange such letters.

"He wished us all a Happy Christmas and New Year," Daisy explained. "And wrote to tell us that he and his family are having a wonderful holiday as well."

Sybil smiled at this, glad that he was. She missed him, and she was disappointed that they couldn't share a dance tonight, but deep down, she was very happy that he had this time to be with all of them. "I'm very happy to hear that," she murmured. "Thank you for sharing that with me, Daisy."

Daisy smiled, but then a deep blush flooded her cheeks. "And…beggin' your pardon, milady, but…he also wanted me to pass this message on to you, if I saw you by yourself."

The girl's words were practically a whisper, and Sybil found herself leaning in close to understand. "W-what?" she stammered slightly. What had Branson asked the kitchen maid to say?

"Only that…that he's sorry he couldn't be here, tonight, to…" she blushed very deeply then. "To teach you an Irish jig, and show you off, properly."

A laugh escaped Sybil's throat then. Daisy practically jumped at the sound. "Thank you, Daisy," Sybil managed to say before her laughter took hold. "Thank you for sharing that…it's…it's a private, inside joke," she explained. She knew she could trust the kitchen maid's discretion.

Daisy nodded her head and bobbed one last curtsey, before shutting the door and leaving Sybil alone to her giggles. Oh Branson…wonderful, cheeky Branson! He had just given her the best Christmas present of all!

Sybil fell back onto her bed and laughed some more, while memories of Branson boasting about his dance skills filled her head. She let out another loud laugh as she recalled him telling her he had once won a prize in school for dancing. But despite all the laughter, she did feel such warmth, especially around her heart. He hadn't forgotten her; in the midst of family and friends and holiday festivities in his home country, he had managed to send her a message and tell her, without saying the exact words…that he missed her…and wished he could be there with her, tonight, at the Servant's Ball.

"Oh Tom…" she whispered, wrapping her arms around her body and hugging herself fiercely, imagining his arms instead.


	4. Winter, 1915

**Chapter Four**

_Winter 1915_

Dear Martin,

I hope by the time you read this, you're well settled into your new Dublin flat. Of course you would pick one of the coldest months to move. No doubt Uncle Michael spent the entire time cursing, if he helped at all. I'm only sorry I couldn't be there, but I won't go into that, because I know exactly what you'll say. But I will say that it was good seeing you and the rest of the family over the Christmas holiday. I know I've said that more than once since my return to England over a month ago, but still, it's worth repeating.

How are things there? I hope you can ease my mother's worrying. Letters are going to be harder and harder to share now, especially with the German submarine blockade. So please, just reassure her that I'm fine; Downton is a far cry from London, and I can't imagine the Germans have any interest in a Yorkshire country estate.

It's amazing that so much has happened within a matter of months. Was it only this past August that war was declared? It's February now, and I still can't believe how far things have escalated. From the recent blockade to that Zeppelin raid that happened a week after I returned back in January. It was a harrowing time, I can't deny that. Once news reached us, I remember Mr. Carson, the butler here, calling us all to gather in the Servant's Hall, and await further instructions. You would have thought the Germans were going to break down the doors from the way he had us all gathered together! Several kitchen maids flew into hysterics, and more than a handful fainted in fear when they heard footsteps coming down the stairs. It was only his Lordship, coming to reassure us that we would all be perfectly safe and to remain calm. His message would have been more helpful had it come a few minutes earlier.

The stories you hear, Martin; they make my blood run cold. Stories about poison gas being used in combat; I can't think of anything worse that being trapped in a trench, and seeing those ugly clouds swirl towards you—

...

I apologize, I…I had to stop, the thought is simply too much.

Have you heard about this story that apparently happened over Christmas? It's not one that many of the papers here publish as it's deemed by some to be "unpatriotic", but I heard about it through a socialist paper that I get whenever I can while driving his Lordship to York. It's being called "The Christmas Truce"—apparently soldiers from both sides stopped fighting on Christmas, and exchanged greetings and sang carols and for a brief moment, saw each other as men. I confess, when I first read the story it moved me to tears. And then I felt so angry that there are men out there who oppose the telling of such stories, who don't want us to see our enemies as men, who don't want to seek peace but only spill more blood! It sickens me, Martin. Absolutely sickens me.

I shared the story with Sybil as soon as I had the chance. We were driving to Ripon when I shared the paper with her, and like me, she was just as amazed and moved by the story. She was also very angry as well, saying that these soldiers are showing that peaceful compromise and negations can be made, but that corrupt leaders are choosing not to see or listen, blinded by their need for power. I confess Martin…if I hadn't loved her before, I would have lost my heart in that passionate speech.

I know you don't approve, and I know that you worry about me. But I have to follow my heart, and I have to have faith that…there is a chance. I truly do believe there is a chance, as mad as that may sound to you.

Life continues in the midst of winter here, at Downton. The first casualty connected to the house was reported last week: a gardener by the name of Rowen. He was 22. His Lordship offered a moment of silence to show respect to Rowen and all of the fallen. I fear he will not be the last.

I know I don't need to say it, but please, take care of my family, Martin. Tell all of them how much I miss them and love them. Let them know that I think about them every day and pray for them every night. And continue to reassure them that I am fine, truly, that I am well and healthy and taking care of myself. They have nothing to fear, and despite the difficulties in sending letters, I will do my best to continue writing to them all.

As for yourself, take care and stay out of trouble. Despite this cold winter, things are "heating up" in Dublin, and not to my liking. Write to me as often as you can, Martin. Good luck and God bless,

—Tom

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><p><em>A few dates for history fans, on some of the events mentioned in this chapter:<em>

_January 19-first German Zeppelin raid on British mainland_  
><em>January 31-first use of poison gas<em>  
><em>February 4-Germany declares submarine blockade of Britain; the start of Unrestricted Submarine Warfare<em>

_I know that in my previous chapters, I had mentioned poison gas being used, but by the time Branson writes his letter, it is official. Also, several people have been kind in letting me know that the "I WANT YOU" poster wasn't King George V *but* Lord Kitchner...as I joked, it would help if all those men of that era weren't trying to look the same ;o) BUT THANK YOU for letting me know these things! I do try to be as accurate as possible, historically, but I am by no means perfect and look to those wiser than me to help when I make a mistake, so thank you again!_

_Please let me know your thoughts and thanks again for your readership and support!_


	5. Spring, 1915

_Sorry for the delay! Things have been hectic in my corner of the world, but I hope to get several chapters up this week, for both stories. Thanks again for the feedback and reviews! I really appreciate them and hope you will continue to share your thoughts and ideas with me! Hope you enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

_Spring 1915_

April 28, 1915

Oh Lord, I can't believe how late it is! Well past two in the morning, nearly a quarter till three! I should be utterly exhausted…but I'm not! Even now, practically five hours since it took place…I can't stop giggling! I must say, my attitude about coming to London for Imogen's coming out ball has changed completely; I am very happy I said "yes" to her invitation!

…Alright, I'm very happy Mama and Papa _insisted_ that I say "yes" to her invitation. But however one looks at it, I am glad I came.

Goodness, I can't believe it was only a week ago that Mama and Papa told me about the invitation. I remember at the time groaning and rolling my eyes, much to their "shock". Papa couldn't understand it; he thought I would be "thrilled" with the opportunity to visit London again, remarking on his memory of how much I had enjoyed myself during my season. What he failed to remember is that the parts I enjoyed had nothing to do with balls or parties or any societal gathering. He tried to convince me to go because _"with the war going on, I doubt we will have the opportunity to visit London at all, this spring". _

Oh Papa; doesn't he know I could care less? Alright, I'll be fair, I did enjoy London…or rather, _my London_, the one where I heard suffragettes speak in parks, where I shopped amongst stalls and carts on Portobello Road, and where I spent an entire day lost amongst the books and artifacts of the British Museum. I do want to go back someday, absolutely…but I want it to be on _my_ terms…and I want to go and experience all those things and more with…well, with my best friend by my side. And while Imogen is a very nice person, and has always been polite and courteous to me…she's not Branson.

Mama was a little more subtle in her approach to convince me to go. She took a lesson out of Granny's playbook in the art of manipulation. What was it that she said again? Ah yes; _"Imogen has always adored you, Sybil, you know that. She's always been a shy little thing, and she admires your bravery, and I'm sure would be completely lost without you to 'guide' her during this special time."_ Oh Mama, really.

The truth is my parents have been long-time friends with Imogen's. And the only reason I suspect Imogen and I are friends is because we are close to one another in age. Her interests are more like those of my sisters, and she could care less when it comes to things like women having the right to vote. But as I mentioned before, she has always been kind to me and never ridiculed me for my interests, even if she didn't understand them…and Mama is right as well, Imogen is a little shy when it comes to meeting new people…or going anywhere that is "unfamiliar"; Lord knows she would panic if I dared suggest we visit Portobello Road instead of shopping on Bond Street.

Mama kept repeating over and over how desperate Imogen was for me to travel with her and serve as her companion, so much so that I finally consented merely to get her to stop badgering me on the subject. Word was sent the next day, and that very afternoon Imogen joined us for tea, and gushed about how happy she was that I would be traveling with her. Perhaps Mama wasn't exaggerating _too_ much about Imogen's desire for my companionship? Within two days I was packed and ready to travel…but I can't deny that I was in a bit of a foul mood that morning; I didn't have a chance to say goodbye to Branson—he was, once again, driving Papa to York that same morning.

My first few days in London, I must confess, were some of the dullest I've experienced. We visited practically every dress shop and tea room on both Bond and Oxford Streets, and for a "special treat", took a walk in Hyde Park one afternoon, but did not linger (Imogen's mother kept fretting about a distinct chill in the air). I didn't bother suggesting we visit any museums; I know that Imogen cares little for such things. Our evenings were spent in drawing room of her family's town house, reading or playing cards; we could not attend any balls until after Imogen's coming out, and since it was "early" in the Season, there was little point in visiting the theatre, for according to Imogen's mother, _"there will be no one worth seeing"_.

I must confess, I find that both hysterical and odd—I'm sure Branson shares my views. The point of the theatre is seeing something _on stage! _Not people in a box across the aisles. But I know what Mary would say; _"Oh Sybil, you are so naïve."_

The days and evenings were so dull I didn't even bother writing about them in my diary. In truth, this has been my first entry since my arrival! But finally…_tonight_ happened: Imogen's long awaited coming-out ball.

It was a small affair—both with it being "early" in the Season and with the War going on. In fact, there weren't that many gentlemen, or I should say, that many gentlemen under the age of thirty-five. Truly, it was more a party for Imogen's parents and her older relations than for Imogen herself. I began to see now why she wanted me to join her so desperately. There was also little dancing at the beginning; Imogen did dance with her father, as did I, and with several of her uncles, as did I. But once we had gone through all of her male relations, we found ourselves sitting near a wall with many other ladies, each one looking grimmer than the next, condemned to the fate of being a "wall flower". In all honesty, I didn't mind; I find the whole notion of the "wall flower" utterly preposterous—I refuse to let my value as a person be measured by whether or not I have a dance partner. But poor Imogen looked utterly miserable; this was not the ball she had envisioned, where no handsome, eligible gentlemen were fighting over the chance to win a place on her dance card.

And it was at that moment that I met Tom.

Tom Bellasis, Imogen's cousin. Oh Lord, how hard it is to write this without laughing! Tom approached us, looking very handsome and distinguished in his regimentals. I must admit I was at first taken aback by his sudden appearance, and the dramatic bow he gave. It reminded me of another Tom, and his sometimes "over-the-top" bow, which he always made to make me laugh. But this bow was genuine, and he gave me a warm smile, before turning his attention to Imogen. Oh goodness, what was it that he said? Something like, _"God above, what has the world come to? That the 'lady of the hour' is sitting here, when she should be swirling about the room, making all other ladies jealous by her graceful feet and handsome partners?"_ He turned and gave me a wink, which I must admit also caught me off guard, but I noticed that right away Imogen began giggling and the sad frown she had been wearing immediately disappeared.

Imogen made introductions then, and Mr. Bellasis once again gave an elegant bow, this time purposefully over-the-top, which did make me laugh…but I must also admit, made my heart ache a little, too. It was then that he offered his arm to both of us, saying we should take a turn around the room together, before dancing with each of us separately.

I was amazed—still am amazed actually—with how much I learned from him in that one dance! He thanked me for coming to London with Imogen; said that it was good she had someone she could confide in while all this was going on. I felt awful then, and still do, if I'm honest. I don't think I've been a very good friend to her, and I certainly haven't made myself available if she needs someone to confide in for any reason. I shall try to rectify that tomorrow and with the time we still have in London. He told me then how he had no sisters, but always thought of Imogen more as a sister than a cousin. I told him how I had two older sisters, and confessed that there are times when I fantasized that instead they were my cousins—_distant_ cousins. He laughed, and then revealed that he had heard from Imogen how I was very political and "mad" about women's rights. I was surprised by this, but chose to wear the words as a badge of honor, and merely squared my shoulders and set my jaw and replied with a simple "yes". He chuckled, and told me that he found me "refreshing", compared to other ladies of his acquaintance, who only seemed to care about the latest fashions or scandalous gossip. He then asked for my thoughts on the War…and if truth be told, I don't know what I said, because I was still utterly flabbergasted by his words.

Branson is the first man—person, really—who spoke to me as an equal, and who took my thoughts and opinions about politics, seriously. But Tom Bellasis is the first person of…well…of my own class, that has spoken to me in such a way.

Not to diminish Branson's words or opinions, not at all! But…for some reason, it always seemed to make sense that Branson, a working-class Irishman, would share my sentiments on such matters, rather than a fellow "peer of the realm".

Listening to him talk, Imogen's cousin that is, I immediately found myself thinking of Branson, and thinking how alike these two men are (first names aside). In that one dance…and the few that followed it, I learned so much about Tom Bellasis' opinions on a wide number of political matters. I even dared to ask him for his thoughts about Irish independence! His brow furrowed and he scratched his chin, and confessed he hadn't thought about the issue that much. He asked if I knew someone who was Irish and I admitted that I did, although I didn't venture to mention that said person worked for my father. He didn't say anything at first, but I could tell that he was truly thinking about the issue. He then sighed and said he couldn't blame anyone for wanting freedom, but that the issue was far more complex than simply signing some piece of paper and allowing Ireland to become its own, independent republic. After all, what about all the Irish who identified themselves as British? What about the conflicts between Catholics and Protestants? If Ireland became its own country, would it make sure it was fair to those that worshipped differently from the majority? I could tell that he wasn't trying to challenge the issue; he was simply asking important questions, questions that I think Branson would be happy to sit and discuss if he had the opportunity.

One of Imogen's uncles asked for our attention then, and began to give a speech. It began well, congratulating Imogen on her presentation. But then somewhere within his congratulations, he began praising the work and efforts of the young men serving on the Continent, fighting "the lions of injustice" in the name of king and country, and I remember glancing at Tom…and seeing him make a face.

A face whose sole intention was to make me laugh.

And it worked!

Even now I can't help but laugh at the memory! I had to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep myself from making a scene! Imogen looked at me funny, and I didn't dare draw her attention to her cousin, so I just kept my hand there and pretended that I was trying to cover up a cough…while Tom continued to make various faces throughout the speech.

Oh Lord, how I wanted to swat him for that! It's just the sort of thing Branson would do. And knowing Branson, he would do it just to bait me into swatting him!

They are so similar, meaning Branson and Imogen's cousin. Not only in humor and manner, but they are so alike in thought as well! I wonder what they would think of each other? Surely they would get on if they met. Branson has told me that he likes Cousin Matthew…but I do think he's a little doubtful and perhaps…cautious…around "upper class people". Which sounds ridiculous, I mean he's perfectly fine around me and never talks down to me…even though he does call me "milady", but I suppose that can't be helped. But what I mean is…perhaps if he met or spoke to someone like Mr. Bellasis, he would see that there is good amongst the upper classes? I mean, I know that he accepts me for who I am…but does he also accept me for…for what I am? Of course, I'm not saying that I believe my class defines who and what I am, but…what I believe may be different from what others believe.

I don't know why I'm going on about it or why it's bothering me. Branson knows who I am and accepts me for who I am and I believe...likes me…for who I am.

Just as I…like…him.

Maybe I should tell Tom about Branson? I don't think he would judge me. Not that I would care if he did; after all, didn't Branson tell me that I belonged to a "superior" society? One that didn't mind that I kept housemaids for pen pals and that my best friend is a chauffeur? But I do think Imogen's cousin would be a part of "my society", and I do think he would share my views on this whole silly thing about "class divisions". Yes, I know I just met him, but Tom Bellasis doesn't strike me as the sort of man who would let something as silly as a man's occupation keep him from being that other man's friend.

I do wish Branson were here. Not just because I think he and Tom would be grand friends, but…because I had always envisioned returning to London with him by my side. Oh how often I've daydreamed the two us, driving around the city, the scrapes we would get into, the things we would see, the rallies we would attend.

And he still hasn't taught me that Irish jig, which he promised me at Christmas!

Oh Lord, what a sight that would be! Branson and I, kicking our feet up as pipes played at Imogen's ball! No doubt her long-winded uncle would be utterly tongue-tied!

Now I truly can't stop giggling! Oh merciful heavens, how my sides hurt from laughing!

Before we parted, Tom promised to take us around London tomorrow, in his own car! I am excited about the thought, but more so because he said he would take us _wherever_ we wanted to go. And I am VERY determined to find one of those stalls that sell chips!

Oh I am glad I came, truly I am, and I am so thankful for this new friend.

But…I must confess, despite all the laughter I've shared since meeting Mr. Bellasis, I can't deny that now more than ever…I am eager to return home to my own, dear Tom.


	6. Summer, 1915 part I

_Whoo hoo! Hooray for quick updates! Thanks for your reviews everyone! Please continue to share your thoughts! I dedicate this chapter to MissPixieWay (a fantastic Sybil/Branson author), who said in her review that she hoped that the previous chapter's Tom would get this chapter's Tom a little jealous...well, you'll see what I mean ;o) ENJOY!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

_Summer 1915 (part I)_

June 17, 1915

Is it possible to despise someone you've never met? Even though you've only seen them from a distance…you already can't stand the sight of them?

That's exactly how I feel about this Mr. Tom Bellasis.

I've never met the git, and yet I can't stand him. He may be a perfectly decent gentleman as Sybil keeps reassuring me, but I have no desire to ever speak to him, _ever_. I know that I'm being unreasonable…but…God, the way Sybil keeps going on and on about him! You would think he was the king himself! Or the savior of the War!

I've never been this jealous of anyone…not even Mr. Matthew.

Four weeks ago, Sybil returned from London. She had gone to serve as a companion to a friend of her family's. I knew that she wasn't thrilled with the idea, and Lord help me, I confess I was a little pleased by that revelation. As spring came to Downton, so did the opportunity for the two of us to sit and talk like we had before the War started; she on the garage bench, me bending over some car's engine—may not be the most romantic setting, but it suits the two of us just fine. She would tell me about some the charity work the organizations to which she belonged were doing. It's obvious she's a little frustrated, feeling that more can be done, but isn't quite sure what that is, at least not yet. She would ask after my family, and I finally opened up and told her stories about them, about all my siblings and my childhood, just as I had before Christmas. Every so often, our conversations would turn to political topics, but…for the most part…we just talked because…because it felt good, talking to a dear friend. Alright, Sybil is far more than a dear friend, but…I keep hoping and praying that this friendship we have will grow into more, that she will see that, and see me as…_more_.

But for the first time in…a year I suppose? For the first time in a year, I'm worried that I may have some competition.

I don't know why this surprises me; God knows Sybil is gorgeous and would attract any man. I remember how last spring, after the incident in Ripon, when Mr. Matthew helped Sybil out to the car and I saw the way she looked up at him…oh God, the knots that tightened in my stomach, the cold clench I felt around my heart…

And then when she went to London for her season, and despite the letters that she sent me, I sat up late each night, worrying about all her potential suitors, and how many marriage proposals she had received, wondering if my Sybil would return to Downton still as…as my Sybil.

…And she did. Or rather, she returned without any attachment.

I've been spoiled. I'm a daft fool, as Gwen would say if she were here, to think that the spirited and lovely Sybil Crawley wouldn't catch some young man's eye. God it hurt, not being able to communicate with her this second time in London. But how could we? While Anna is a good friend, I doubt she would approve upon my correspondence with a lady of the Crawley family. I was so focused on my own, stupid pain about not being able to write and hear from her…that I never considered the very real possibility she would return from London with a beau.

And to add insult to injury, he had to have my initials.

I still remember that drive, when I went to fetch her at the home of her friend. I was up well before dawn, pacing and eagerly waiting for word to go and retrieve her. When the time finally came, I must have driven like a maniac; I couldn't help it, I was desperate to see her! I arrived and waited for what felt like an excruciating amount of time before she finally exited the house…on the arm of another man.

I would later learn that this was the _other_ Tom. Apparently she was on a first-name basis with the git.

I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end while I watched him gaze down at her and murmur something that caused her to laugh. But I swear it bristled when he lifted her hand to his lips…

I wanted to smile at her when she finally lifted her eyes away from him, but I couldn't…all I could do was glare at this uniformed stranger while I helped her into the car. Thankfully, she hadn't noticed my grimace; she grinned and said it was good to be home, and while we drove away, proceeded to tell me about her time in London. She was gushing with excitement, but I barely heard a word she said, focused entirely on who that man was. I knew little about her friend, but I didn't think she had a brother. I was so caught up in my thoughts, that I missed her exclamation that she had finally tasted chips.

I couldn't stand it any longer and asked her who that man was. That was when she told me his name, and revealed he was the cousin of her friend, and had traveled back with them to spend several weeks in Yorkshire, before leaving for France.

I think I actually ground my teeth at this revelation.

I only wish it had ended there…but it didn't. In the days that passed, I learned more and more about this Tom Bellasis; Sybil couldn't stop talking about him! She would pop by the garage and tell me about something she saw or did in London…which _that_ _Tom_ had taken her to. Thankfully she hadn't been alone with him; her friend and accompanied them, but still…God knows how many times I stabbed my thumb on whatever engine I was tinkering, while imagining them walking arm in arm.

Then she began telling me about _his_ political thoughts and opinions, and how much she had learned from what he had to say.

Bloody fantastic. The man is rich, handsome, and at least a head taller than myself. But did he have to be "brilliant" and political as well?

I nearly snapped at her when she began insisting that I meet him. Nearly.

Why? What purpose could it serve? What's the point in meeting this man? So what if he has political opinions that she claims mirror my own…it won't matter, because I know I'll be too envious to look him in the eye and think rationally.

Did I mention that he drives his own car?

I learned this when he pulled up one afternoon to have tea with Sybil and her family. Sybil's friend, his cousin, accompanied him, but it didn't matter, because all of the women were eyeing him up like some prized stud. I must have wandered in and out of the kitchens at least four times to find out if he was still there. On my last visit I learned that he had taken Sybil and Lady Edith on a drive in his car. I learned more the next day, when Sybil began filling my ears about the trip and how much fun she had. Good God, is nothing sacred anymore? Am I to be constantly measured up to this "paragon of manhood"?

Thank God he left for whatever county had come from the next day. But even though he had gone…his presence was still felt every time Sybil mentioned his name, or something he said to her that she thought I would find interesting.

…And then she received a letter from him yesterday, announcing his impending visit to Yorkshire.

She was beaming when she popped by the garage today. Her smile is always radiate, but there was a particular glow about her that normally would cause my insides to melt, but this time, I'm sad to say, had quite the opposite effect. That cold clench I had felt around my heart when she had gazed up adoringly at Mr. Matthew over a year ago, came rushing back, and this time it squeezed so hard I swear I couldn't breathe.

Rage. God help me, that was the emotion that flooded by whole being.

Rage at him, for being the reason she was glowing so beautifully. Rage at her, for not realizing the agony I was experiencing every time she mentioned this other Tom's name. And rage at me, because I was—am—allowing my jealous insecurity to get the best of me.

I should have kissed her. I should have grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her against me, capturing any shocked gasp with my own mouth. I should have kissed her and revealed everything—risk it all, and tell her how I feel, tell her how I hate being apart from her, how she's the reason I chose to stay in England despite my own family's plea to return home. That's what a real man would have done…but instead, I bellowed at her.

She came into the garage, glowing and beaming and holding his wretched letter in her hands, announcing his return to village, and before I could utter a single word, launched into yet another story about something he had said about politics. She began to tell me, once more, that I should meet him, she insisted that I would like him, and then made some mention about questions he had raised when she asked for his opinion on Irish independence, _while dancing together_. I don't know if it was the topic to which she had mentioned, the image of the two of them having this conversation while having their arms around one another, or the fact that, once again, I stabbed my thumb on the engine—possibly all of the above—but whatever it was, I lifted my head and bellowed like a banshee that I didn't want to hear anymore.

I told her I could care less about what he said or did, which was clearly a lie, because I then bellowed that he had no right to raise questions about something he couldn't possibly understand, being an upper-class Englishman who had never set foot in Ireland or who had to live in terror that soldiers could break down your door, while children around you cried because they were starving.

She stared at me, that beautiful glow disappearing immediately. She looked pale…and fragile. And she took a step back…away from me.

I should have stopped, but I didn't. I threw down my tools and kicked the box so hard, it skidded across the floor and hit the wall with a loud bang. I advanced upon her and demanded why he was coming back; didn't he have a war to go and fight? Wasn't he supposed to be leaving for France, where he could go and perform more heroic feats for ladies to spin into songs?

She turned and rushed out of the garage then. I haven't seen her since.

Idiot. Stupid, jealous, arse.

God how it hurt, seeing the pain in her eyes. I would take it all back if I could, but it's too late now. No doubt she hates me…and can I blame her? I hate myself for how I behaved! Bastard…

I've never raised my voice to her…I've never fought with her, really. No doubt my actions have had the opposite effect; instead of showing her how much _I_ love her, how much _I_ value her, how _I'm_ the better man for her than this other Tom…_I_ practically send her running to _his_ arms!

I've been trying to write some sort of apology…but the floor around my cottage is littered with failed attempts.

What would Martin say if he could see me now? _"I told you so"_ seems the obvious choice. Mother would slap me against the side of my head, before pushing a keg of soap into my mouth, if she had heard the words I had shouted. Kathleen would shake her head and cluck her tongue, and my other sisters would follow along. Frank may be the only one who would have agreed with my actions…Frank and possibly Uncle Michael…oh God, there's a frightening thought.

…There's no excuse. I'm twenty-five, far too old to go flying into jealous tantrums.

And she doesn't—didn't—deserve my anger. She was innocent, I see that now…but what's the point in shutting the gate after the horse has bolted?

I will have to grovel and beg for her forgiveness, if she ever comes back…which I hope will happen sometime before this century ends. But…I'm afraid won't be for quite some time.

Well done, Tom…well done.


	7. Summer, 1915 part 2

_Ok, I promise, my next writing update will be to "Love's Journey", I know many people have been patiently waiting-but I really wanted to wrap the "Summer 1915" plotline for this story up. In the previous chapter, Branson dealt with that vicious green-eyed monster known as Envy/Jealousy; now we get to hear Sybil's side of things!_

_Once again, thank you to everyone, both for reading and for taking the time to let me know what they think! If you can, please leave some feedback, it really helps inspire and fuel me! THANKS!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

_Summer 1915 (part II)_

July 1, 1915

Men.

Oh, they can be just…

If I could, I would…

Oh, they are the most…INFURIATING CREATURES TO ROAM GOD'S GREEN EARTH!

…

…

Why do we, women, even bother? I mean, honestly…WHY DO WE PUT UP WITH THEM AND THEIR RUBBISH? I am convinced that if it weren't for men, we wouldn't be in this bloody war! If it weren't for men, women would be equal citizens, could own property, be legitimate heirs to successions, and…and…and VOTE, DAMN IT!

…

…

Bloody men.

Bloody men and their stupid, arrogant, cock-sure…egos!

…

Oh I am just…so angry! Bloody Branson…

How many weeks has it been since our first argument? It was sometime in the middle of June. I came to the garage to tell him that Tom Bellasis had written to me, announcing his impending return to Yorkshire to visit Imogen and her family before leaving for France…and for no apparent reason, he…snapped at me like some wild, rabid dog!

All I ever wanted for was for the two of them to meet, for Branson to know another likeminded comrade. I thought it would be good, for him, for…for us. To prove to him that not all of us "English nobles" are…thoughtless snobs.

…Not that he's ever given any indication that he thinks of me like that, but…but still…if I could show him one other person…

I don't know. I don't know what I was hoping to accomplish. All I know is that…that…that HE RUINED EVERYTHING!

…

I've hardly spoken to him, not since he snapped at me in the garage that day. I've purposefully been avoiding him…well, there was that one time we ran into each other…and when I say "ran into", I should say that Mama requested the motor, and then "insisted" that I accompany her to Ripon for…I don't even remember what the purpose of the trip was, but I reluctantly agreed, but I REFUSED to meet his eyes, or even let him help me into the car!

…But he would insist on grabbing my wrist to stop me from following Mama into a shop. I gasped so loudly that it's amazing Mama didn't spin around and catch us! I tried to give him my most contemptuous glare, but…damn him; he looked at me in that way of his that always makes my heart spin in dizzying circles. He pressed something into my hands then, and then his eyes were just so…pleading…I...I…oh, damn him.

I took his letter. But I didn't read it…at least not right away. I was still so angry with him! And I hated myself for…for "giving in" so easily, just because he looked at me in…in "that way" of his.

So I was stubborn, and made it quite obvious that I would not read whatever he had written (even though I was burning with curiosity to know what it was he had said), but I remained steadfast in my decision, and stuffed the note into my reticule without another glance.

Later, as we left the shop, I could feel his eyes burning on me. I made sure I looked anywhere but his face. And I continued to do this all the way back to Downton, even as we left the car and returned to the house.

…Was I being childish?

I suppose I did go a little overboard. Even Mama remarked that I seemed rather "cold". I retreated to my room, Branson's note feeling like a hot coal and a heavy brick in my reticule. I threw the purse down upon the bed and paced back and forth, watching it warily as if it were a living creature, ready to spring and attack. Finally, after several long, agonizing minutes, I took a deep breath and prepared to open it…when Edith burst into my room, her face red and her eyes wild and her voice at such a pitch that it could only be heard by dogs…going on about receiving word that Sir Anthony was leaving for France, and how it was all Mary's fault, that if not for Mary's meddling, she would have been married to Sir Anthony by now and living quite happily and he would have no need to go to the Continent and be heroic.

I spent the rest of the day consoling Edith, which I cannot deny, was an excellent distraction.

I didn't look at his letter that night, either. I purposefully locked the reticule in a cupboard and gave Anna the key.

Two days passed and somehow, I managed to keep my curiosity at bay. Instead, I received a letter from Imogen, telling me about a party her parents were going to throw in honor of her cousin, before he traveled to France. She wrote that Tom was very adamant that I attend.

I should have been excited. I _wanted_ to be excited…

But I couldn't stop thinking about all those things Branson had said. All those…those…_horrible_ things! Demanding to know why Tom was coming back, why he wasn't in France already, why he has opinions at all about Ireland—as if Tom Branson has a monopoly on opinions! I just…I felt my anger rise, like a volcano ready to explode…and it was _his_ fault! I marched straight to the garage and found him tinkering with some car—he's always tinkering with some car!—and before he even finished lifting his head from the bonnet, crumpled up Imogen's letter and threw it at him!

It bounced off his chest like a soap bubble.

I began shouting at him, just…full of so much rage and anger! It was _his fault_ that I couldn't find joy or excitement about a friend's upcoming visit. How dare he speak to me in such a way as he had done all those days before! How dare he say such things about Mr. Bellasis, whom he has never met! I hurled various insults at him, while he stood there, sleeves rolled up, an oil-soaked rag clenched in his hands, his face unreadable, save for the grim line that was his mouth…which I couldn't help looking at…

Bloody Branson!

And what did he say? He _accused_ me! Actually had the gall to stand there and accuse me of…not reading his letter.

…

…Well so what if I hadn't! How could he expect me to read it when I was so angry with him! And besides, he shouldn't have said what he said in the first place! How dare he turn this against me, as if it's _my_ fault we're arguing! It's his fault for starting this whole bloody mess! (And I don't care what Mama or Mary or Granny say about how young ladies should speak) BLOODY, BLOODY, BLOODY!

In the past I've pretended to swat him. But oh…how I dearly, dearly wanted to punch that handsome—NO!—_grimacing_ mouth of his!

I turned on my heel then, telling myself to leave, leave before I did try to punch him—but stopped when I heard him…_chuckling!_ The…what is that word I've heard men use against one another? Ah yes, git! The _git_ was actually chuckling at me! And it was a cold chuckle too.

He had picked up my letter and opened it, attempting to smooth out the crinkles so he could read it properly. I should have just kept walking, but instead I turned back to look at him, my eyes wide in surprise at his laughter, but quickly narrowing into small, angry slits.

Oh God, I remember what he said. _"So the Savior of the War wants you to be his dance partner at some posh party? Isn't it a little early to be celebrating? He hasn't even crossed the Channel yet! But no doubt he'll single-handedly win the War."_

…What's worse is…I remember my response.

_"Oh yes, mock the soldier! Mock his bravery as he goes to fight for freedom and justice while cowards stay behind and make cruel jokes."_

Oh merciful Lord, it only became worse after that. He demanded to know if I were accusing him of being a coward, to which I spitefully "apologized" for not being "obvious enough"—to which he accused _me_ of being the coward, because, once again, I didn't read his stupid letter—and then I shouted something, and he shouted something, and I shouted something again…and we continued like this until finally he threw his oily rag on the ground and asked me, without blinking, if I would be happy if he simply went to Papa, handed in his notice, and enlist the next day.

…

…

I felt as if I had been slapped. Or at the very least, as if someone had thrown a cold bucket of ice water in my face.

I ran then. I turned and ran back to my room…the coward that I am.

I'm so angry with him, truly…but…I can't stand the thought of him over there. It's just…it's unbearable…

I didn't speak to him for the rest of that week. Or the week that followed. I avoided him at all costs, walking to the village if I needed to go there, feigning illness if Mama or anyone else wanted me to join them for a drive to who knows where. In fact…it was only yesterday that I finally spoke to him.

I mustered up what little pride or courage I had, and went to the garage to request the car for tonight...to drive me to Imogen's party.

Oh God, it hurt. It hurt, having to ask. And I don't mean for myself, but…for him.

Am I imagining things? I have long since given in to the fact that yes…I have a crush on Branson. But I am not some simpering school girl—I know that this is all it can be, and…with any luck, I'll grow out of it…although I don't like to think about that.

But…I'm sure he doesn't…see me as anything…but the daughter of his employer. He's not the sort of person to let something as…as…as _silly_…as romance…cloud his brain. He's much too serious for something like that, and I'm sure would laugh at me right now for seeing me write these words (Oh God, I pray he never sees and never knows!) But what I mean is…he does seem genuinely upset, about Tom, even though he's never met him.

Or, as I said, am I simply imagining things?

I must be; Branson's not jealous—if I remember correctly, it was what I said about Tom's views on Ireland and Irish independence that set him off.

…But it still hurt. It hurt having to ask, and it hurt…because…oh bloody hell…it hurt because I miss him. I miss my friend. I hate feeling this way! I hate being upset and angry with him! I hate…I hate myself, for saying those awful things to him…and for not reading his letter…until tonight.

A few weeks too late, I'm afraid.

When I went to make my request for the car, I was prepared for his cruel jokes and insults…even though my heart was already tired at the thought. But he didn't respond that way. He didn't even frown at me. He barely looked at me. He simply murmured, _"As you wish, milady",_ and that was that.

Mama and Edith and Granny joined me. Papa was otherwise engaged and Mary claimed a headache. I tried to enjoy myself, but…I couldn't stop thinking about Branson. With every smile, ever joke, every invitation to join Mr. Bellasis for a dance…I found myself instead, thinking of Branson.

Thank heavens Granny told me she was tired. I insisted that we all say our goodnights and be on our way. I shook Tom's hand, wishing him the best and telling him to be careful and stay safe. He tried to lift my hand to his mouth for a kiss, but I snatched it away before he could, too ashamed to meet his eyes. Without another glance, I muttered a goodnight, and then led our group outside, to where the car waited…but Branson wouldn't look at me.

Now here I sit, in my room, fuming at first, feeling so angry, wanting to blame him for everything that's happened…but what good will it do? It won't make the pain stop…

I finally read his letter. I asked Anna to give me the cupboard key, after we returned.

…There's not much to say. It was short—but sincere.

_Lady Sybil—_

_I had no right to speak to you as I did, and I feel utterly wretched for my behavior._

_I pray you can forgive me. _

_Your friend, —Tom Branson_

Oh Tom…_my Tom_…are we? Are we still friends? I hope so. Or have I ruined things? Have I allowed my anger and pride to get the better of me?

Do I dare write my own apology? No, I fear he would do what I did, and ignore it…or worse, feel I was mocking him.

No…to win his forgiveness, his trust, and his friendship, I feel it will have to be something much more drastic—like groveling. But even then…is it enough? I'm afraid to answer that question…

Well done, Sybil…well done.


	8. Autumn, 1915

_Hello! Sorry for the delay in updates; I mentioned in my latest chapter to "Love's Journey" that things will be slow for a while, due to a transition in my work place. But whenever I am able, I will do my best to update both stories, and hopefully with summer around the corner, I will find more free time to do just that!_

_This is a fun little chapter that will lead in to what I hope will be a BIG chapter, full of delicious Sybil/Branson goodiness that we all love. But this chapter will set the stage for it, so be ready! And as always, THANK YOU to all the wonderful reviewers and readers; thank you for your kind thoughts and encouraging words, I appreciate them and they certainly help in inspiring my writing. Please, if you're able, let me know your thoughts! And without further ado..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

_Autumn 1915_

Dearest Gwen,

CONGRATULATIONS! Oh I am so excited and thrilled and happy for you! I know this may sound silly, but can you hear my smile as you read this? I hope so, because I truly can't stop grinning! CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR ENGAGEMENT!

You should have seen the two of us today, meaning both Anna and myself. We both must have received your letter in the afternoon post, because when she came to help me change for dinner, I was squealing and giggling with glee, as was she! I leapt to my feet as she entered and grasped her hands, and without warning, began spinning the two of us around in wild circles! Poor Anna, I think she was momentarily stunned by my behavior, but she sweetly complied, and we both collapsed atop my bed, balled up and laughing like a bunch of giddy schoolgirls! But it's only natural, I argue; how often does one receive word that a dear friend is going to be married at Christmas?

Oh Gwen, I truly, truly am so happy for you! I remember how you wrote to me earlier this year, in the spring, telling me all about Mr. Edward Warren. You had only just met him, but I could tell from the way you wrote about him that you were smitten! Don't deny it, you know you were! Mr. Warren also worked for the telephone company, but if I remember, he came up from Birmingham to work in the York office, am I correct? Will the two of you be making your home in York, then? While I know it's not close, it certainly is closer than Manchester or Leeds or London, of course, so I would think your family wouldn't mind. And I do remember how you said that maybe it would be good, to put a little distance between yourself and home? Oh Gwen, I do believe I can relate with you entirely on that count!

Well it didn't take long for Mr. Warren to win your heart! When I received your letter after returning from London this past spring, he had _finally_ convinced you to accompany him for dinner. And then I recall the letter you sent to me in July…where you _finally_ admitted that yes, indeed, the two of you were sweethearts. Oh Gwen, I didn't say it then, but I must admit that when I read that letter, I rolled my eyes because it had been so obvious in your previous letters that you were head over heels in love with this man! And who could blame you? While I know I've never met Mr. Warren, everything you tell me about him sounds wonderful! He's kind, thoughtful, patient, generous, a hard worker, and…oh, that's right, of course I remember you telling me this…SEES WOMEN AS EQUALS AND FULLY SUPPORTS THEM GETTING THE VOTE! Oh but all joking aside, I must say, what really won my approval (not that you need it) was when you told me how he admired you for following your dream to work as a secretary…and how much he likes the idea of the two of you working side by side in an office together. I know Edith would look at me very strangely for saying this (and you too, possibly) but I must say…that's the most romantic thing I have ever heard!

And I mean it! I'm not mocking at all! Truly…how wonderful and sweet and romantic, the thought of working side by side with the man you love…coming home together after a long day, making dinner together, or perhaps deciding to go out to a restaurant and eat instead! I just…I can't help but smile at the idea. And I believe you and Mr. Warren (Edward, if I may be so bold) will have a wonderful and happy life together.

Now I will admit, I was surprised when your letter also brought news about your wedding plans—but I can't blame you for not wanting to wait; I think the War has proven to all of us just how precious life is. A Christmas wedding! Or to be more precise, a "Boxing Day" Wedding. Well, I can't think of a better way to celebrate Christmastide than to wish you and Mr. Warren joy, so yes, I will absolutely be there! In fact, Anna and I were discussing dresses; after recovering from our "spin around the room" I immediately began rummaging my wardrobe, tossing various gowns onto the bed, insisting that Anna take one because we must be absolutely dressed to the nines for such an occasion!

Who else have you told? I know that you write to both me and Anna, and no doubt Anna will tell the rest of the staff, but…have you written to anyone else? Well, I'm sure your family knows, of course; did you also write to my sisters? I hope you don't mind if I tell my family; I can't think why, and I don't know if I can keep it secret, I'm ready to burst right now as I write this! But is there anyone else that you told? Or anyone else that you would like to me to tell?

…Oh alright, I'll come out and say it; have you told Branson?

As you may have gathered from the way I wrote that sentence, things between himself and I are still…well…"delicate" maybe the best word to use. Oh Gwen, you know about that awful argument Branson and I had over the summer; while things have cooled down, we've never really…apologized…to one another. Or I should say, _I_ never really apologized. He wrote me that note, asking for my forgiveness, which I read far too late, and I…oh Gwen, I was cowardly and avoided him, even though I knew I should have sought him out and told him how sorry I was for…oh for everything. We have spoken here and there…but not like before. I certainly haven't gone down to the garage to pass the hours away and speak with him like I used to. Oh it's maddening! And I know, I know, it's my own fault and I have no one to blame but myself.

Well, I promise, I will not let something as silly as…as my immature behavior, to spoil something as wonderful as this announcement, or the celebration of your marriage! If Branson does come, I promise we will be on our best behavior. Oh Lord, listen to how I sound—as if the two of us were ill-behaved children! Well…what was that phrase I once heard Mrs. Hughes say? "If the shoe fits". Perhaps a little too appropriate?

Anyway, Gwen—thank you! Thank you for sharing this lovely, wonderful, happy news with me, and for the invitation to the wedding! I will be there, by hook or by crook, ready to throw rice and rose petals as you and your Mr. Warren exit the church! Do keep me informed on all the plans, and if there is anything I can do to help, in any way, please do not hesitate to ask—for that is what friends do, and we are friends (and how many times do I have to tell you? No more "Lady Sybil", is that clear?).

Congratulations again, my dear friend. I am waiting anxiously for your reply. Blessings upon you and your handsome fiancée; he's the luckiest man in the world to be sure!

Your dear friend,

—Sybil

* * *

><p><em>Now onto the wedding! Any guesses on what Sybil and Branson will do? ;o)<em>


	9. Boxing Day, 1915

_Ok, this is a HUGE chapter; I knew when I wrote it that it would be longer than any other chapter I have written for this story, but I was surprised with how long it had become. Yet I think it fits as it does; I really wanted to explore an entire day between Branson and Sybil, and unlike previous chapters that normally explore the POV of one character, this chapter explores *both* POV's._

_A few other things to mention. While a bulk of this particular story is AU, I tried very hard to write as if it were possible that these things did happen, during those missing years between seasons 1 & 2 of "Downton". There may be some things you read that make you go, "whaaaa?", but hear me out; I think *something* must have happened..or nearly happened, between Sybil and Branson from the 1914 Garden Party to his botched proposal in 1916. I tried to answer that question with this chapter. I do hope you will enjoy it and find it plausible to the Downton universe. Also, not to spoil anything, but there a few "wedding events" happening this chapter. I have no idea if some of the traditions we follow today were popular traditions in 1915...but I decided to say, "yes they are", so if I am historically inaccurate, I apologize._

_THANK YOU for all the lovely feedback, and despite the size of this monster, I do hope you enjoy it! Ok, I'll shut up now! Thanks again!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

_Boxing Day 1915_

Sybil nibbled her bottom lip as she examined her reflection for the eighth time that half-hour. She wanted to look perfect for Gwen's wedding, and she kept frowning as a stray brown curl refused to stay in place, no matter how many times she attempted to pin it down. She let out a frustrated sigh as she once again pushed the offending curl aside and tucked it back in place.

How was her make-up? She didn't want to put too much on, but at the same time, she swore her nose was shining. She scrutinized her dress for what seemed like the millionth time; it was December, so naturally she needed to wear something warm, which was a shame since all of her best gowns were meant to be worn in spring and summer. Despite Anna's protests, Sybil insisted that the housemaid borrow something of hers, mentioning how she had noticed Anna gazing upon a purple gown with cream-colored lace at the collar. Sybil always thought it was her best winter dress, and she rarely wore it except for very special occasions, such as Christmas dinner. However this year, she chose not to wear it, and instead gave it to Anna to wear for the wedding.

This left Sybil with her only other conceivable option: a thick wool dress, blue in color, with tiny peal buttons up the back and a delicate black beading along the hem, sleeves, and collar. Everything else she had for winter was a tad too plain, at least for such an occasion as a wedding. The reason, however, for Sybil's scrutinizing was that the dressed looked…tight in some places, but loose and…what was that word she had once heard Mary use? "Frumpy" in other places. Indeed, the dress sagged unflatteringly around her hips and backside…but felt horribly tight around her middle. She groaned, wondering if she would need to ask a maid to help her tighten her corset. "I don't care what Edith says, I'm not getting fat!" She rolled her eyes at the thought; no, she was just the "larger boned" of the Crawley daughters. Mary and Edith had always been slim and delicate, whereas she was a plump child, as her parents loved to tell her when reminiscing about her birth, and was "fully developed" by the time she was thirteen. While Mary and Edith wanted to wear corsets to prove how grown up they had become, Sybil _had_ to wear them to keep her unruly hips, waist, and breasts in place.

Lord, how she hated corsets.

A light knocking on her door drew Sybil out of her scrutinizing, and she turned to see a grinning Anna. "Oh you look lovely, milady!"

Sybil smiled at Anna's compliment, although in truth she didn't believe her. But she wasn't going to let her own insecurities about how she looked ruin this special day. "Never mind me, YOU look stunning, Anna!"

Anna blushed, but she couldn't help giving a little twirl as she stepped into the room. Despite Sybil's feelings about her purple gown, she was very glad she had given it to Anna to wear for Gwen's wedding. "I'm so glad you are wearing it," Sybil grinned. "You should wear it again, for Bates."

Anna's blush deepened to a bright scarlet. "Milady!"

Sybil's mischievous grin turned into a giggle. She and her sisters were well aware of Anna's feelings for their father's valet. It was something Gwen had once hinted it…as well as Branson, now that she thought of it.

The sudden thought of the chauffeur caused Sybil's giggle to fade. The connection between that thought and that of…of romance…caused her cheeks to suddenly become enflamed.

"Well!" Sybil didn't want to draw Anna's attention to her own blushing. "No doubt we should be on our way, yes?"

Despite her blushing, Anna was smiling and thankfully hadn't noticed Sybil's own scarlet cheeks. "Yes, milady, Mr. Branson is bringing the car around as we speak."

Sybil's blush suddenly paled. _Branson_. Oh Lord, would things ever be the same again? _Could_ they be? She nibbled on her bottom lip and groaned as that silly piece of hair, once again, strayed across her forehead.

"Well, then let's be on our way!" Sybil declared, perhaps a little too merrily; she was trying to hide her worry and misgivings. She chastised herself as she left the room. _Stop it! This is Gwen's day, Gwen's wedding day, and you will not allow your own stupid, confused, irritating feelings to get in the way of that!_

Sybil led the way down the stairs with Anna following just behind. They passed the drawing room, and much to Sybil's surprise, her entire family was present! Normally her father would be in his library, and if it could be helped, her elder sisters would avoid one another as much as possible. But here they all were, her father reading his paper, her mother writing cards, her sisters both doing needlepoint—the only explanation for this strange, familial scene was that it was the day after Christmas.

"Is that you Sybil?" her grandmother's voice ringed out. Good Lord, Granny was even there? Sybil managed to suppress a groan and poked her head instead the drawing room door. Indeed, hiding in a corner, was her grandmother. "Come in, come in!" she insisted, waving her hand as she spoke. "Let's have a look at you!"

She had been dreading this. She wanted to slip outside as quietly as possible, without any notice, and simply be off to celebrate her dear friend's wedding. But instead…she knew she was about to be judged and clucked at by a bunch of opinionated hens. Her own scrutiny would be nothing compared to grandmother's.

"Oh Sybil!" her mother cooed, as she entered the room. "You look lovely."

Her father lifted his head from the paper and smiled warmly as well. "Indeed," he agreed. "Please be sure to pass our compliments to Gwen when you see her."

"I will Papa; thank you, Mama," she murmured, putting on a smile. Gwen did send an invitation to Downton exactly one month ago, and Sybil knew that it had been invitation meant for the _entire_ house, not just she and the staff…but that wasn't exactly how her parents read it. Sybil was the only member of the Crawley family attending, and in her father's eyes that was fine. She would more or less "represent" the Grantham's, as if she were some foreign ambassador. If truth be told, it was fine with her too; to her, Gwen was a dear friend, whereas in the eyes of her family, Gwen was simply a servant who once worked there.

Mary lifted her eyes from her needlepoint. "You're wearing _that_?"

Sybil bit her tongue. She had forgotten about the scrutiny of her sisters. Her mother hissed Mary's name, but Mary didn't show any remorse or embarrassment for asking her question.

"Hmmm…" Granny murmured. Her face spoke volumes, and it was clear she shared Mary's opinion.

Edith decided to lend her opinion to the fray. "Is that all you have?"

Oh Edith, Sybil thought. She knew that the tactless question was her sister's way of trying to be helpful, but it was quite the opposite. "No, it's _not_ all I have," she retorted. "But…most of winter dresses aren't suitable for something as special as a wedding."

"Oh for heaven's sake," Mary groaned. "You should have just come to me, I'm sure we could have found something of my own for you to wear."

Sybil didn't need reminding just how much more lovely and elegant her older sister was. Besides, she highly doubted anything Mary had could fit her! "There isn't time, and besides…" she was beginning to feel defensive of her blue wool dress. "I don't think it's that bad…"

"No, no, it's not," her grandmother murmured from her corner. Sybil was surprised by the agreement. "It will certainly do for a servant's wedding." She was not surprised by that, however.

"_Former_ servant," Sybil muttered under her breath.

"Oh Anna!" Mary gasped. Sybil turned to see Anna blushing deeply, standing just a few feet away. "Oh Anna, you look radiant!"

"Thank you, milady." Anna put on a small, blushing smile, although it was easy to see she was also embarrassed. Sybil felt sorry to have put the maid in this place—as well as a little jealous.

Edith was smiling too, but her eyes narrowed slightly and she glanced at Sybil. "Isn't that…" she motioned towards Anna's dress and Sybil knew what her sister was about to ask next, but to save her friend from further embarrassment, Sybil practically pushed Anna away from the drawing room door.

"We must be off!" she declared, trying to keep her frustration towards her family out of her voice. "I'll be home later this evening! Don't wait up!" Without another word, she more or less grabbed Anna by the sleeve and pulled her behind her, quickly grabbing the coats Carson was holding and exiting the house before another comment could be made.

Once outside, Sybil groaned as the cold December air hit her skin and filled her lungs. She thought that perhaps she should say something to Anna, to apologize for any embarrassment she felt, but any thought of words escaped her when caught the eye of a serious looking gentleman, standing straight and tall beside her father's Renault.

Branson?

Indeed, it was him! But he wasn't in his usual livery. Instead, he wore a simple brown suit, with a dark tie, and cap to match. Upon first glance, his clothes wouldn't necessarily be regarded as anything fancy. Yet she quickly realized that it was probably one of his better suits—perhaps his best—and she couldn't blame him for not wanting to attend the wedding of a friend which they both held dear, in his chauffeur's uniform. Suddenly, Sybil felt very foolish for all the hours she wasted, scrutinizing her gown.

Sybil opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. The look he wore was very serious, and the chill she felt just then wasn't caused by the December weather. However, she noticed his face light up with a warm smile (the kind he used to exchange with her) as Anna came around and approached the car, seemingly oblivious to the awkwardness that was passing between Branson and herself.

"You look lovely, Anna," Branson complimented as he helped her into the car. Once again, Sybil felt that stab of jealousy wash over her, only this time it was sharper. With a deep breath, she marched to the car, holding her head high, and without even looking at him, began to help herself in, trying to ignore his presence…and the hand he had extended to help her up.

But despite her attempts to ignore him, his hand did find hers, and she bit back the gasp as she felt his strong, warm fingers, wrap around her gloved hand and squeeze it gently, before she settled on the car seat next to Anna. Her cheeks were burning and her eyes betrayed her by darting a glance his way…but he was already shutting the door and climbing into the driver's seat without a look back.

"Right," he announced, as he turned on the engine. "Best be on our way before the bride arrives!"

* * *

><p>He was in the servant's hall the day Gwen's invitation arrived. He was reading the servant's paper when Daisy rushed into the room, holding a slim piece of paper and squealing to the other maids that Gwen was getting married. He knew this already, of course, because Gwen had sent him a letter several months prior, telling him all about her engagement and how they were planning on being married around Christmas. He remembered laughing at the irony of the situation; a year ago at Christmas he had returned to Ireland to walk his sister, Kathleen, down the aisle. Now, a girl who he had come to see as a sister was also getting married. Were all his Christmas' to be spent at weddings?<p>

"Oh gracious!" Daisy murmured as she read over the invitation in awe. "Isn't it romantic? I can't wait!"

Mrs. Patmore clucked her tongue. "Don't get any ideas that you'll be going to this wedding! Do you know how busy we'll be that week? It's Christmastide for heaven's sake!"

Poor Daisy looked heartbroken, and could be heard sniffling as she left the room. O'Brien was sitting nearby, having just come in from a smoke, and scoffed at the invitation. "So the little secretary is gracious enough to invite us 'lowly servants' to her wedding," she grumbled, pushing the piece of paper away from her. "I'll be sure to send her the crown jewels as a present."

Branson shook his head and folded the paper. O'Brien seemed nastier these days; he wondered if it was because she missed her partner in crime? "I take it then you won't be attending?" She looked at him as if he had just suggested that pigs fly. He tried his best to hide his smile; the lady's maid had no idea that her absence would be the best present she could offer Gwen.

Bates was also sitting at the table and took a moment to examine the invitation. "I would love to go," he said with a genuine smile, ignoring O'Brien's grunt. "But I am afraid I will have to decline."

Anna approached the table then and her smile quickly faded to a frown. "Why?" she asked, before taking her seat next to the valet.

Bates sighed and looked down at the shoes he had been shining. "It's my mother," he murmured. "Her health isn't improving, and…" he paused to take a deep breath. "I'm afraid…this may be her last Christmas."

Without a word, Anna reached out and took the valet's hand in her own, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'm sure Gwen will understand," she whispered, to which Branson nodded his head. He felt sorry for the valet, but at the same time he couldn't lift his eyes from the sight of Bates and Anna's enclosed hands. He respected both Anna and Bates, and thought of them as good, dear friends. No one could doubt the love and admiration the two had for one another, and Branson sincerely wished them every possible happiness. But at the same time…he couldn't deny that he envied them. Indeed, there were many obstacles that were keeping them apart…but at least they knew how deeply the other cared for them. At least there was comfort in that acknowledgement.

Branson didn't have that comfort. And with the way things currently were between him and Sybil…he wondered if he ever would.

"What about you, William?" Anna asked when the younger footman entered the room. "I know Gwen would love to see you at the wedding."

William smiled, but glanced off to the direction where Daisy had disappeared. Branson followed William's gaze and sighed. He hadn't been the only man to feel hope and encouragement at last year's garden party. Daisy finally managed to get William to hear out her apology for her ill behavior towards him, and then begged that they be friends once more. Ever since that day, William's "enthusiasm" to win Daisy's heart returned, and with hopeful vigor. His previous shyness forgotten, William now openly flirted with Daisy, although at a respectable distance—after all, both Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes were watching like hawks. However, much like himself, William also seemed lost in a state of romantic limbo. Just when it seemed he was making progress with winning Daisy's affections, something would happen and she would step back into the "comforts of friendship". Still, Branson found himself envying William and Daisy at times, as well. Even though it seemed they were no better off than he and Sybil, at least they were free to laugh and flirt with another, and not raise too much of an eyebrow.

At least William's pursuit for Daisy was keeping him from seeking Lord Grantham's permission to enlist.

"William?" Anna asked once more, trying to get the footman's answer.

William's head snapped back to Anna, although his eyes were still straining in Daisy's direction. "Well…I um…I don't know…I mean, I'd like to, but…it's just…it's a shame Daisy can't go—"

"Oh for God's sake," O'Brien groaned, before rising from her seat in irritation and leaving the room.

Branson couldn't deny she said exactly what he and possibly others were thinking. "Come on," he encouraged, smiling up at the footman. "Someone has to dance with Anna while I'm dancing with the bride."

William's eyes widened slightly. "Are you going to go, Mr. Branson?"

"Of course I am!" he laughed. "A wedding isn't a wedding without an Irishman drunkenly dancing and singing and attempting to steal a kiss from a bridesmaid or two."

Bates, Anna, and William joined in Branson's laughter, not knowing that in his mind, it wasn't a bridesmaid he was stealing a kiss from, but a very fine, beautiful lady…who lived just above stairs…

There was no more talk about weddings after that day. Despite the War and how deeply the household was economizing, they were all busier than ever. Mrs. Crawley, Mr. Matthew's mother, would every so often seek his Lordship's help, or rather the help of Downton Abbey, to benefit the village hospital. A benefit ball had been held in the late summer, and in the autumn months there was a "harvest festival", complete with an auction on the estate grounds. Now, as the Christmas holidays were quickly approaching, a concert of carols was being planned, and once again, the staff were finding themselves working extra-long hours to fulfill their usual tasks, as well as to make the house presentable for a multitude of guests. While the work had little to do with Branson's job, it did keep the others very busy…including Sybil.

He was seeing less and less of her.

Ever since that stupid argument over the summer, things hadn't been the same. He blamed himself completely; he did start the whole thing. He shouldn't have said what he said about that other Tom, no matter how envious he was. The ache he was feeling in his heart weighed far heavier on him now, during these months of "separation". It was worse than being there without her. At least when she had gone to London he knew she would eventually come back. But she was there…keeping herself locked away from him, only stopping by the garage to order the motor, never lingering, never speaking to him as they used to…avoiding his eyes whenever he drove her anywhere…God, it was unbearable.

Something needed to change…but what? Sybil kept herself busy, helping Mrs. Crawley with the various charities and benefits, although Branson could see from the few times he saw her, that she looked more restless than hopeful. As if the work she was doing weren't enough…

Two days before Christmas, Branson found Anna in the servant's hall, her body hunched over a dress that she appeared to be mending. He recognized the dress right away; it was one of Sybil's. Oh his Sybil looked lovely in any color, but he had grown fond of her in purple…

"For Christmas?" he asked, looking over Anna's shoulder.

Anna glanced up at him and shook her head. "Well…not exactly." His brow furrowed as he noticed a blushing smile spread across her pretty face. She couldn't help but grin and hold the dress up to her own body. "Lady Sybil gave it to me, to wear for Gwen's wedding!"

Branson's eyes widened at this bit of news. He wasn't surprised by Sybil's generosity; after all, she had given Gwen one of her dresses to wear for her interview in Malton. But he knew that the dress was one of Sybil's favorites…and he had a sudden worry that maybe…she wasn't planning on coming.

No, utter nonsense. Like both he and Anna, Sybil saw Gwen as a dear friend, and it would take a legion of hell hounds to keep her from that wedding. And even then, he would put all his money on Sybil.

"That was very kind of her," he murmured, putting on a smile for Anna so as not to cause her suspicion.

Anna's grin only widened more. "I know it sounds awful and selfish of me, but…I've always imagined what it would be like, to wear a grand dress, and…here's my chance!"

"No, I don't think that sounds awful or selfish." And he meant it.

The next few nights were fitful for him. Now, with the day of the wedding practically upon him, _now_ he began fretting over the reality that he would soon see Sybil.

See her in the car…dressed in her finery…

See her at the wedding…imagining _her_ in that bridal gown…

See her at the wedding breakfast…dancing…

…Dancing with another man.

No, no, he refused to let jealousy take control of his mind again!

After all, why did it have to be another man dancing with her? Why couldn't it be him?

_Because she despises you right now._

He gritted his teeth and told the voice to shut up. Yes, something needed to change—and so help him, it WOULD change at that wedding.

December 26th dawned with a cold wind and a bright sun. It had snowed late, on Christmas night, and there was a small layer that covered the ground. He woke early, washed, shaved, and put on his best suit, hoping he would not look too shabby for Gwen, (sadly, he knew he would for Sybil). When time came for him to bring the car around, he did so, with William sitting in the passenger seat up front. Despite the joyous occasion they were about to go to, William looked downcast, still sad that Daisy would not be able to attend…which also meant he would not be able to dance with her. "It would have been my only chance," William moaned, as he got into the car. "What with there being no servant's ball this year."

Branson had heard that the Servant's Ball, as well as many other holiday festivities that the Grantham's participated in, had been canceled due to the War. He hadn't been surprised by this news; he remembered Sybil telling him all about the argument between the two countesses, on whether it was appropriate to have the ball. It would seem that this year, the current Countess of Grantham had won the argument, and no doubt her Ladyship, the Dowager Countess, was fuming.

"Come on," he sighed, attempting to bring William out of his misery. "I understand why you're upset, but we're going to this wedding because Gwen is our friend…not because there's dancing."

But there would be dancing. And maybe…just maybe…he would be able to finally have that dance with Sybil…

If she allowed him.

The first obstacle he needed to conquer was winning back her trust and friendship. Once he had achieved that, _then_ he would face the obstacle of convincing her to dance with him.

William was rubbing his hands together, trying to bring some warmth to them while Branson stood silent and stoic beside the car, waiting for their female companions. The door to Downton burst open unexpectantly, and poor William was taken by surprise and nearly slipped on a patch of ice. Branson's eyes took in Sybil's demeanor and could immediately tell that she was both flustered and frustrated. But his eyes softened as he took in the whole sight of her; the sun hitting the top of her dark hair, almost creating a golden halo. She had haphazardly thrown her coat over her dress, but he could see that it was deep blue color, one that brilliantly matched her eyes. Perhaps he would have to rethink what he thought about her and purple? Her cheeks were lovely and rosy, and in that instant he caught her eyes and he felt his heart skip as it always seemed to, whenever he caught her beautiful blue-gray gaze.

But a sudden wave of embarrassment and inadequacy hit him. Her eyes were taking in the sight of him, and he knew when compared to her, he looked like something the cat dragged in. His musty brown suit had once belonged to his father; it was plain and out of date, he knew, but it truly was the best piece of clothing he had. What had he been thinking? How could he possibly expect her to willingly stand beside him, looking the way she did, and take his hand to dance? A grimace clouded his face then, but he tried to wipe it away as Anna approached, smiling and shining in Sybil's purple gown.

"You look lovely, Anna," he complimented, giving a tiny wink to her beaming grin. He helped her into the car and then turned his eyes back to Sybil, wanting to offer her a similar compliment, hoping it could be the first step to mending their friendship. However, the flustered expression she had worn was now replaced by a haughty look, one that could only be perfected by the Dowager Countess herself.

She marched forward, ignoring the offered hand to help her up, and began climbing into the car without as much as a word or glance. So it was going to be like that, was it?

However, her gown had other plans. It was clearly a heavy material, one that did not move and sway with her body as easily as some other gowns she had worn. And even though he knew she would never admit it, it was clear to him that the gown was giving her some grief as she attempted to hoist herself up into the car.

Without a word, Branson took her hand, his fingers enveloping hers, and pulled her up inside. His ears didn't miss the gasp he heard, and as if by instinct, his fingers gently gave hers a squeeze.

But he didn't dare meet her eyes. He was afraid he would only see disdain. Instead, he climbed into his seat, and William resumed his place beside him. "Right," he announced as he turned on the engine. "Best be on our way before the bride arrives!"

* * *

><p>She was trying to concentrate; trying to keep her focus on the handsome groom who was nervously rubbing his palms together as he waited for his bride to come down the aisle. An organ was softly playing behind her, people were murmuring all around her like a hive of bees, and every so often a head would turn to see if the bride had made an appearance.<p>

But Sybil didn't dare move. She didn't dare breathe. Because her knee…ever so lightly…was touching Branson's thigh.

They had arrived twenty minutes before the ceremony was to start. She wanted to go in search of Gwen, to wish her joy, but Anna insisted that they take their seats; there would be plenty of time to murmur blessings afterwards at the wedding breakfast.

The church was small, and it would seem that the Dawson's had invited their entire village to attend! They were crammed into their pew, packed in like a tin of sardines. Anna was on the outside, next the aisle, and William was the furthest in. And quite literally, stuck in the middle…were herself and Branson.

Sybil's hands rested on her lap, although inside her gloves her palms were sweating. As soon as they took their seats, Sybil felt her knee touch Branson's leg, and she wondered if he had noticed as well? She slid a glance towards him, but he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat and wondered if she would give her knee away by fidgeting in her seat.

Suddenly the organ music shifted, and everyone quickly turned towards the back of the church. Sybil turned as well, but gasped, for by doing so, the entire length of her thigh was now firmly pressed against Branson's!

…And rather firmly, as well.

It was hard to focus on the lovely bride walking down the aisle…when she could feel the muscles in his leg rippling against hers.

"Oh milady, isn't she beautiful?" Anna whispered, giving Gwen a warm smile as she passed.

Sybil could only nod her head. She didn't dare speak right now—she feared all that would come out would be a croak!

He hadn't planned this, honestly. It was pure "luck of the draw", that both he and Sybil would be sitting next to each other. William had entered the pew first, and he had followed, and before he knew it, Sybil was taking her seat right next to him. Fortune seemed to be smiling on him today!

More and more people filled the church, and soon they were finding themselves squeezed closer and closer together. Branson could feel Sybil's knee brush his thigh and he did his best to control the pleasured smile that threatened to break across his face. He slid a glance at her, and noticed how she had stiffened when the muscles in his thigh flexed slightly. Hopefully it wasn't because she was disgusted by him…

No, no, it couldn't be that. If it were, she would have moved or fidgeted or done something. She would have insisted that Anna switch spots with her, she wouldn't simply continue to sit there and "pretend" that their legs weren't touching.

The organ music suddenly changed, a sign that the bride was coming forward. Along with everyone else, Branson also turned his head, eager to see Gwen…and by doing so, felt Sybil's thigh fully press against his own.

Good God…despite the layers of fabric that separated them, he swore his skin had been seared by that contact. And he didn't mind it a bit.

He closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the feel of her against him, recalling some rather vivid dreams that revealed much more…and then quickly told his mind to stuff it; they were in a church, after all.

"Oh milady, isn't she beautiful?"

Anna's voice woke Branson from his thoughts, and he looked up to catch Gwen's eye, who was smiling at their pew as she passed. He smiled back, and new memories flooded his mind, memories of walking his sister down the aisle, of comforting his mother as she happily cried while Kathleen and Sean made their vows to love one another until death parted them.

The music stopped and the vicar began to speak, drawing everyone's attention to his words and the couple he was saying them too. Even though he and Sybil were now facing forward, their legs remained flush against one another. And as distracting as that was…he was still able to take in all the words the vicar was saying…

He had nearly reached for Sybil's hand then, but thankfully caught himself before he had done so. It couldn't be helped that their legs were touching…but it would be a deliberate give-away if he took her hand in his. Although he did recall the Garden Party, when he had been surprised by the feel of Sybil's lace-covered fingers enveloping his. That was when he had been given hope; hope that these emotions weren't the creations of a mad lovesick Irishman…that maybe, just maybe…she shared his feelings too.

"…do you promise to love her, keep her, cherish her, and forsake all others…"

The vicar continued reading the vows, but Branson's eyes drifted away from the couple, to the woman who was sitting next to him, whose lovely cheeks and grown even rosier, and whose lashes were bashfully brushing face. If it were possible…he fell even more in love with her in that moment.

"I do…" he whispered.

* * *

><p>Anna was crying. Sybil could feel her own tears brimming, but they hadn't begun to fall, at least not yet. She was listening to the vicar read the vows, and felt her own heart beat rapidly as each word was spoken. She was so tempted to glance at Branson, but she didn't dare. She still hadn't recovered from the feel of their thighs pressing together! And was it her imagination…or was he looking at her? She could feel his eyes upon her profile, and she began to nibble on her bottom lip, her cheeks only growing hotter with each passing second.<p>

She heard him whisper something, but it was too soft to catch. She wanted to turn her head, to ask him what he had said, to demand it of him!

…But she didn't. She kept her focus on the smiling couple, and felt a pang of romantic envy as Mr. Warren lovingly enfolded Gwen's small hand, after placing the gold ring on her finger.

She remembered the Garden Party from last summer; the day the world changed, in so many ways. She and Branson had been watching Gwen then too, watching like proud parents, and without warning, something came over Sybil and she had reached out and taken Branson's hand in her own. The memory could still cause her fingers to tingle.

It would be so easy to do that again…

She noticed how his hands were holding his cap, which lay calmly on his lap. Her hands weren't so far away, they could just move an inch or two, and then their fingers would be touching…

Reflexively, almost as if she were in a trance…her hand began to move, to float towards his.

What would she say if he looked at her, if there was a question in his eyes? She could say something about "being caught up in the moment"—but that would indicate something that…she wasn't sure she was prepared to admit…at least not yet.

But that would only happen if he accepted her touch. What if he rejected it? What he pulled his hand away and looked at with a look of disgust? The thought caused her hand to freeze in place.

But…what if he didn't say anything…but took her hand in his? What if it were like before, where she reached for him, but he squeezed her hand? What if he did that again, like he had when they left the house? Yes, he took her hand to help her into the car, but there was no reason for him to squeeze it the way he had…

What if Branson enfolded her hand, just as Mr. Warren had enfolded Gwen's?

The room erupted in applause as the vicar announced that Gwen and Mr. Warren were now husband and wife. Anna was standing, grinning and clapping as tears spilled down her cheeks. William was grinning too, and had also sprung to his feet. She felt a shift next to her, and realized that Branson had risen as well; she was the only one in the entire church who hadn't moved.

Sybil did her best to rise quickly, not wanting to look out of place, and also joined in the clapping. She smiled as Gwen and her new husband walked past, on their way to sign the registry, while the congregation would gather outside, ready to greet the new couple with a shower of rice and flower petals. She held the smile, trying her hardest not to give way to a disappointed frown.

She had missed it.

She had been so ensconced in her own thoughts and worries that she had missed the last moments of Gwen's wedding…as well as her opportunity to hold Branson's hand once more.

* * *

><p>"TO THE HAPPY COUPLE!"<p>

The crowd erupted into cheers as they raised their glasses in a joyful toast to wish Gwen and Edward Warren the very best in their new life as husband and wife. Music immediately began to play while beer and champagne flowed freely. Branson sat back in his chair and took a drink from his glass as he watched Sybil and Anna cross the room to where Gwen sat with her husband, eager to embrace their friend and wish her well. Despite the smile that she now wore, he had noticed Sybil's melancholy when they rose to leave the church.

The tavern where the wedding breakfast was being held had a semi-large assembly room above its main floor, obviously the place for country dances and social gatherings—such as a wedding party. It was only a few yards from the church, and the whole congregation paraded down the village street, singing songs while continuing to throw rice at the newly married couple who led them all to their current destination. He grinned as he watched Gwen laugh and blush, especially when those around her cried out, "Kiss! Kiss!" His eyes went to Sybil, who was trudging beside him, but he noticed that the mirth everyone else seemed to be feeling was completely gone from her face.

"Is everything alright, milady?"

He was surprised by the sound of his voice. The question simply flowed passed his lips, without any consideration for rebuke or rebuttal. He missed talking to her, he hated this silent war that they had been carrying on for too many months, and his heart yearned to comfort her from whatever sadness was weighing her down.

Her head snapped up at his question, and once again, he found himself taken aback and at an utter loss, from her startling blue eyes. Apparently the sound of his voice had surprised her too.

"I…" she began, as if trying to find the right words to say…but then she closed her mouth, and gave a quick shake of her head. "No, no, I'm fine, truly…thank you." She then put on a smile, but Branson wasn't fooled. This was not her genuine smile, which always lit up her face like a beautiful ray of sunshine. This was the sort of smile he had seen her wear when trying to appease her parents or grandmother.

She hastened her steps so that they matched Anna's, who was walking a few feet ahead with William. He sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets, his brow furrowed as he watched her retreating back. Was she still, purposefully avoiding him? No, no, that didn't seem right. Was her sadness caused by old memories of Gwen's life at Downton? No, that didn't seem to fit either. What was it that had caused her to put on this happy façade? What was she trying to hide?

Sybil wasn't the only one suffering from melancholy. But unlike her, William wasn't trying to hide his depression. He sat on Branson's left, his eyes fixed on the dancing couples who had risen once the music had started. There was little doubt as to what he was thinking.

"I wish Daisy were here…" he moaned, again. Branson tried his best not to roll his eyes. He truly did sympathize with the footman; who better than he knew what it was like to love and yearn for someone from afar? But moaning never helped anyone solve any problems…(maybe he needed to listen to some of his own advice?)

"Daisy will be more upset if you don't return with good stories to share about the wedding," he tried to reason, gently.

William looked at him with confusion. "Won't she feel more upset for not coming, if I do?"

Branson shook his head. "She may be a little wistful, but she'll want to hear all the details and she'll be hoping that you can provide them for her." It wasn't too hard to believe; while Daisy wouldn't call herself "William's sweetheart", it was obvious that she liked him, and he was probably her closest friend amongst the staff. "She'll be more upset if she learns you simply sat here, feeling sorry for yourself," he quickly added, for extra measure.

That seemed to do the trick. William lifted his head with slightly wide eyes. "I…I suppose you're right," he murmured, as Branson's words sunk in. "I wouldn't want her to feel responsible for how I was feeling…"

Branson gave William a friendly clap on the shoulder. "Why don't you ask the bride for a dance? You haven't spoken to Gwen yet, and I'm sure she would be happy to."

William put on a smile and gave a small nod of his head, before rising and heading in the direction to where Gwen was excitedly talking to Anna and Sybil. He smiled as he watched the three of them, remembering how it was before the War, before the world became a horrific and confusing place. He chuckled at the thought and took another drink from his glass. No, he knew better than that. The world was not a gentle or simple place—it held many horrors, and more often than not, was very mystifying. He was only more aware of them now.

Life was never simple. He did not think of himself as one who longed for nostalgia, in fact he hated it when he heard people go on and on about how "things were better back when…" and so forth. But the problem Branson was facing was that things _had_ been better...at least they had been between himself and Sybil.

No, he couldn't think like that. That was defeatist talk, and he would never call himself that. He took one last gulp from his glass and rose to his feet, his eyes fixed on the three laughing women as he approached with determined steps.

* * *

><p>Sybil laughed as she watched William swirl Anna around the room as the music swelled to a deafening sound. Not only had it grown louder, but it had also grown faster, and Anna was practically squealing as William spun her in several quick circles. The sight was hysterical and it certainly was putting a smile on Sybil's face…which was good, because she badly needed one.<p>

She glanced out of the corner of her eye and felt her cheeks redden as she watched another couple spin just as quickly. Gwen's laughter could somehow be heard over the music, and she clung tightly to Branson's arms as he spun her at dizzying speed.

The two couples were the only ones left on the dance floor. The crowds had gathered around and were clapping and whistling as the music grew and grew. Sybil even noticed a few men off to the side make several bets on which couple would outlast the other.

While she watched the dance intensely, she couldn't deny the envy she was feeling. How she wished it were her in Branson's arms. Oh, how she wished she could at the very least dance!

When she and Anna had gone to wish Gwen congratulations at the start of the wedding breakfast, Sybil was also introduced to several other members of Gwen's family, including a younger brother who couldn't have been more than sixteen. Sybil embraced Gwen and chatted with her eagerly, alongside Anna, but kept glancing over at the table where Branson and William sat. William rose then and joined them, and bashfully asked if Gwen would like to dance. Gwen grinned and took William's hand, and then Sybil felt the air leave her lungs as she noticed Branson approaching, and with determined steps…his eyes locked with her own.

"Beggin' your pardon, Lady Sybil, but…would it be alright if…if…" Sybil suddenly realized that Gwen's brother was speaking to her. "May I have the honor of this dance?"

Sybil was speechless. The boy's face was red with embarrassment, but at the same time his eyes were lit with hope and determination. In any other circumstance, it would be highly inappropriate for him to ask her to dance. But this was a wedding celebration after all, and if truth be told, Sybil never cared for such conventions as to whom one could dance with. And she certainly didn't care about such things when she thought about a certain person to whom she _hoped_ she would share such an experience with…

But the poor boy looked so hopeful, and she knew that it must have taken every ounce of courage that he had to ask her something like that. She glanced at Branson one last time, before forcing a smile and nodding her head. "Yes, that would be lovely, thank you."

The boy's eyes widened suddenly, and it was his turn to be speechless. He had clearly been expecting her to turn him down, but now he was grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and before she could change her mind, had grabbed her hands and was pulling her out onto the dance floor to join the other swirling couples.

Sybil barely had the chance to catch Branson's gaze before she was pulled away. But she thought, in that brief moment, that she had seen disappointment.

It turned out that Gwen's brother, while enthusiastic, was not the best of dancers. He was clumsy, and at several points either stumbled, or worse, stepped on her foot. He led her in the wrong direction on several dances, and it got the point where Sybil "defied" convention, and attempted to lead him, herself.

No one seemed to notice, they were all lost in their own dances, if not paying attention to the laughing bride. It was just as well, because Sybil's patience was truly running thin with Gwen's brother, and she was ready to quit the dance at any second.

And she should have. She should have quit it when she had the chance, because if she had, then he wouldn't have attempted to lift her. But he was young and eager to show off, and had no realization that the heavy weight of her dress would prove to be an issue. He came to this realization far too late; he had begun to lift her, and then struggled with his hold…and then began to drop her. He should have just let her fall, Sybil realized later, because she was sure she would have landed on her rump. Undignified and humiliating? Yes. But her ankle wouldn't have been sprained.

No, Gwen's brother tried to be gallant, and tried to catch her as she fell…which only caused his foot to come down, rather hard, on her own, bending it in a way that it wasn't meant to bend.

A painful gasp escaped Sybil's lips, and she bit her lip to keep it from turning into a howl. None of the other wedding guests had noticed, they were all clapping as William and Gwen's dance came to an end. But Anna had noticed…as did her dance partner, Branson.

"Oh, milady!" Anna gasped, rushing to Sybil's side. "Are you hurt?"

Gwen's brother was white faced and looked utterly horrified. No doubt he was worried about the trouble he had just gotten himself into, for accidently injuring a daughter of the Earl of Grantham.

Branson was there in a flash. "Anna, fetch that chair and pull it over here," he instructed. Without another word, he put his arm around her waist and lifted her off the ground. Sybil gasped and immediately began blushing as she felt Branson's strong arms lift her up onto the chair as if she weighed next to nothing. Once she was settled, he knelt before her and gently reached for her ankle.

"Oh!" Sybil gasped, more from the shock of what he was doing than from any pain she was feeling.

Branson stopped and looked up at her. "Forgive me milady, I should have asked permission. I was nearly trying to see how bad the swelling was, as well as determine if it's broken or a sprain."

Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded her head. "No, no, it's alright, I understand." She didn't dare look up at Anna for fear that her emotions could be easily read. Oh Lord, what must she look like now?

Carefully, with tender and expert fingers, Branson inspected her ankle. She bit her lip to keep herself from making any noise. The last thing she wanted was to draw any attention to herself; she was mortified enough as it was, not to mention she hated the thought of ruining Gwen's wedding breakfast.

"Should William fetch a doctor?" Anna asked, hovering nearby, both out of concern and for property's sake.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Branson murmured, before gently releasing her ankle. "It's not broken, and I think if she keeps something cool upon it, the swelling will go down," he lifted his head to William who stood off to the side. "Get some snow from outside, and wrap it in a handkerchief," he instructed. William nodded his head and was off in a flash. Sybil chewed on her bottom lip and quickly attempted to right her skirts. She had always thought it silly, the way some women were about "exposed" ankles. She always giggled in the past whenever her mother or grandmother gasped with shock over such things. But right now, she couldn't imagine anything more intimate than what Branson had done in touching her ankles.

…Well, that wasn't entirely true. She _could_ imagine _other_ things…but told her brain to be silent on such matters otherwise she was sure her face _would_ go up in flames!

"Perhaps we should leave, milady?" Anna suggested.

Sybil's eyes widened at the suggestion. "Oh no! No, I couldn't do that, not to all of you, not to Gwen!"

Branson shook his head. "Gwen will understand, and you really should lie down, milady. I'll go and get the car—"

Sybil grabbed Branson's sleeve to prevent him from going anywhere, and he froze and looked down at her hand, and then back up at her face. She was determined. "You will do no such thing, Tom Branson." She inwardly chastised herself for using his first name; she wasn't supposed to know things like that, and she certainly shouldn't have revealed that knowledge in front of Anna. But she held her ground and only prayed that he would listen to her. "We will leave when I say we leave, is that understood?" She hated using her authority as an earl's daughter in such a way, but she wanted him to understand that she was serious.

He stared at her with a look of surprise. And then, very subtly so only she would notice…he gave her a cheeky grin! The nerve! A pout immediately formed at her lips, which only caused his grin to spread, but he quickly forced it aside before Anna could notice. "As you wish, milady."

Sybil simply nodded her head, as if she was her grandmother and that was that. William returned then with a handkerchief full of snow, and Anna carefully, and as discreetly as possible, pressed the snow against Sybil's ankle.

Lord it was freezing! But she knew it would do her good. "Thank you," she murmured to all of them, then addressing both men. "Now…go and keep Gwen and her guests distracted; I don't want her to know about my clumsiness."

Branson gave her a look which seemed to say she shouldn't be keeping silent on such matters, and then he gave a dark glare to Gwen's younger brother, who was still standing nearby, pale and trembling. Sybil had practically forgotten all about him. One look at Branson and the poor boy was off. He sighed and then turned his head back to her. "Milady, are you sure—"

"Yes!" she hissed, before glancing nervously around. It truly was a miracle that no one else had noticed. "Yes, I am…besides, I can't go anywhere right now, so…please, go and enjoy yourselves."

William looked helpless and Anna was too busy trying to keep the snow-soaked handkerchief pressed against her ankle. It more or less came down to herself and Branson, and whose stubborn stare would win out.

In the end, victory was hers.

"Very well," he muttered, before turning away and rejoining the crowd of clapping and laughing guests, who were once again crying out for a kiss between the bride and groom.

That had been over an hour ago. Sybil now sat by herself at a table, while Anna danced with William and Branson danced with Gwen, the four of them laughing and spinning while the rest of the crowd clapped and cheered. She made her excuses to Gwen, when she had passed by earlier, explaining that her feet were sore and didn't think she could stand to dance anymore; she prayed Gwen hadn't noticed that in truth she had only danced once. As for Gwen's brother, he made himself scarce for the rest of the party.

Sybil remained at her table, insisting that the others enjoy themselves, not wanting to be coddled or pitied; she was capable of doing that all by herself. Since she could not dance, she tried to keep her spirits up by laughing and clapping and cheering whenever other couples danced and passed her table. She also continued to refill her glass with champagne, hoping that that would cheer her too. Yet every so often, she would notice Branson out of the corner of her eye, talking to some of the other girls in the room…and she would notice how they would touch his arm…and one even touched his chest! And then she watched him dance with these other girls…watched them laugh and cling to his broad shoulders as he spun them around, clearly relishing the feel of his arms around them…

It occurred to her, when she gave a rather loud and unladylike hiccup…that perhaps she had drunk a little too much champagne in her efforts to distract herself from the annoying sight.

She was startled when the music came to a sudden crescendo, and the room erupted into wild applause as Branson and Gwen were declared the victors in their crazed dervish. She clapped as well, although she winced at the sound, feeling a strange throbbing develop behind her eyes and in her ears.

"Gather around girls!" a woman shouted over the crowd. "Time for the bride to bless the next lucky lady with her bouquet!"

A squeal went up in the room, and Sybil winced even more at the sound. She realized what was about to happen, and then she noticed several of those girls who had shamelessly flirted with Branson crowd around Gwen, who was standing atop a chair with her back turned to the room. One girl smiled at Branson then, and blew him a kiss.

That was it.

Clumsily, Sybil rose to her feet, and ignoring the dulling pain in her ankle, limped forward towards the gathered crowd. Despite the throbbing ache in her head, and the sudden growing queasiness in her stomach, she limply marched with determined steps, ready to show these village girls what a Crawley woman was capable of!

Anna took notice and flew to Sybil's side. "Milady! You should sit down! You shouldn't put any weight on your ankle!"

Sybil ignored her. "I'm determined, Anna."

Anna shook her head, and tried to lead Sybil away from the crowd. "No, milady, you need to sit and rest."

"No…" she was fighting against Anna's guiding hands, but her movements began to slow as an ill feeling rose in her stomach. "No…" she said again, although more weakly than before.

"Milady, please…" Anna said with a firm voice, the sort Sybil had heard her use when speaking to younger housemaids. She wanted to protest, to fight against the woman, to catch that bouquet…but a sudden warning went off in her head, and she knew that if she didn't move right then, she would truly disgrace herself right there in the middle of the room.

She began to limp away from the crowd, towards the closest door that she could see. Anna tried to help by allowing Sybil to lean against her so that she wouldn't have to bear all the weight. "Hurry, Anna…" Sybil warned, her hand flying to her mouth. Anna's eyes widened, realizing what was happening, and tried to move as quickly as possible.

The second they reached the doorway, Sybil released her mouth and let her head fall into an empty spittoon that was conveniently lying on the ground, just around the corner. While she was losing herself to sickness, she felt something bounce off her backside. She gave a gasp and turned to Anna, who was looking stunned at the bouquet of flowers she had caught!

"Oh well done, Anna!" Gwen cheered, grinning as she turned around from the chair she had been standing on. The room applauded, although several of the girls who had crowded around Gwen put on a pout. Anna blushed deeply, and murmured a bashful "thank you" before turning her attention back to Sybil, who was lifting her head from the spittoon.

"I think I'm ready to go home now, Anna."

* * *

><p>Branson glanced behind at Sybil as they approached the house. Her head was leaning against Anna's shoulder, and she looked miserable. Clearly she had tasted a little too much champagne. His suspicions on the matter were confirmed when he noticed her rise and more or less stagger towards the crowd of squealing girls, who were eager to catch the bride's bouquet. His brow furrowed at the sight, and he took several steps towards her, but Anna was there first and began to lead her away…and his eyes followed them as they quickly retreated to the hall just beyond the assembly room, Sybil's face ashen and pale, like someone who…well, it didn't take much of an imagination to ponder what had happened next.<p>

Anna quickly fetched him to bring the car around, while she and William bid Gwen their farewells. The winter sky was beginning to darken as Anna helped Sybil into the car, and now as they pulled around the gravel drive, it was completely black. "Best that you come through the servant's entrance, milady," Anna advised as Branson brought the car to a stop. "William, go inside and see if you can find Mrs. Patmore. Ask her to make some peppermint tea; it will calm Lady Sybil's stomach."

William nodded his head and quickly dashed across the drive to the entrance. Branson came around and opened the door. He didn't bother waiting for Anna to come around from the other side, he was already reaching in to help Sybil climb down. "Oh God," she groaned, her hand moving to her mouth while the other gripped his shoulder.

"It's alright milady, take your time," he murmured. The hand that was around her shoulders began running soothing circles across her back.

She looked up at him then, and he was startled by the grateful look in her eyes, which despite the sickness that was evident on her face, were dazzling in their color. "Thank you, Branson," she softly murmured.

"I'll help you inside, milady, and we'll get you upstairs and into bed," Anna soothed, coming to Sybil's other side.

Sybil shook her head. "No…no, I…I think…I think what I need is fresh air…"

Anna glanced at him and he could see her disapproval. "Milady, you should lie down—"

"Please, Anna," she moaned, leaning against him. "Please…I…I know that they will be having their dinner…I…I don't want anyone to see me like this…"

Branson knew Sybil was talking about the other servants. True, right about now the others would be having their dinner, while his Lordship and the family resided in the drawing room. No doubt they were waiting for their daughter's return to share with them the day's festivities. The last thing Sybil needed was a gossiping audience…or a pile of questions thrown in her face, asking what had happened to her ankle…and why she looked so ill.

"Anna, why don't you go inside and prepare her room. That will give everyone some time to clear the kitchen. She can stay here and get some air; I'll keep an eye on her." He gave the head housemaid a reassuring smile, although in truth his heart was pounding. This would be the first time all day that the two of them would be alone.

Anna glanced back and forth between himself and Sybil, before sighing and nodding her head in reluctant agreement. "Alright…but I'll be quick." He nodded in understanding, before helping Sybil sit down on the familiar garage bench while Anna turned to hurry inside.

"I'm sorry…"

He was startled by the apology and looked at Sybil in confusion. "Whatever for?"

"For…" she began to explain, but paused to take in a deep breath of clean, cold air. "For…for everything that's happened."

He was still confused. "There's no need, milady. Besides, you didn't get sick on me," he hoped to make her smile with his bad joke, but she only looked worse. "Anna will be back soon, and—"

"No, Branson, you don't understand," she interrupted, and then to his shock she tried to stand up. He moved quickly to stop her, his hands going to her shoulders to ease her back down, but her words caught him completely off guard. "I'm sorry for…for everything that's happened…between…" she stopped, some color coming back to her cheeks and flooding them a beautiful, rosy pink. "…Between you and I."

He stared at her, his eyes searching hers, and the pounding of his heart suddenly became a gallop.

Sybil continued. "I should have read your letter when you had given it to me…"

Branson shook his head. "You were upset; you had every right to be angry with me, I'm ashamed of how I had allowed my anger and frustration to be taken out on you, and I should have apologized to you directly, rather than simply writing it down—"

"But by that same logic, I should have gone to you and apologized after unleashing _my_ anger upon you, instead of avoiding you as I have been," she paused and looked down at her feet. "I'm completely ashamed of own behavior."

He didn't know what to say then. It was the most they had said to one another in months! And then he suddenly realized that they were standing very close to one another, his arms practically wrapped around her in a steadying embrace.

"There's no sense in whipping a dead horse, as my mother would say," he sighed. "We've wasted far too much time letting our anger and stubbornness rule our lives; there's no point in allowing our guilt to do the same." He felt his heart warm at the small chuckle that escaped her throat. "I say we start fresh now; put the summer and all that happened behind us."

She smiled and lifted her head then to look up at him; God, how he wanted to kiss her. She was standing so close to him, and it was so tempting to bend his head, just a few inches, and capture her lips.

"Friends?" she murmured, her eyes searching his.

His heart sank just a little at her question. He valued her friendship more than anything in this world, but God above, how he wanted to be so much more. "Of course," he answered, putting on a smile and telling his disappointment to shove off. "Always."

The smile she gave him lit up her entire face, and he felt his heart lift again. He was glad he could make her smile like that.

"I do feel awful though, for making you all leave when we did," she groaned, hanging her head in embarrassment.

He chuckled. "Don't be; a party isn't a party when Lady Sybil Crawley is unable to dance."

She blushed even more then, and he felt his heart lift even more, almost like it had on the day of the Garden Party.

"Oh don't remind me," she groaned, leaning a little closer to him so as to take some weight off her ankle. He knew he should advise her to sit down, and help her back to the bench…but the selfish truth was, he was enjoying feeling her lean against him.

"You should have said something," he muttered. "That boy doesn't know how easy he got off."

She laughed and looked up at him with merriment dancing in her eyes. "I don't know about that; I saw the look you gave him that sent him scurrying."

Branson snorted. "He deserved my foot right up his—"

"And what about you?"

He looked back at with confusion. "Me?"

She nodded. "Yes, you. Do you even remember the names of half those girls you danced with?"

He bit his lip, trying very hard not to reveal the teasing smile that threatened to expose itself. Was she jealous? "I don't know what you're talking about, milady," he murmured innocently.

Sybil gave him such a look that he couldn't help but laugh. "I saw the way they threw themselves at you."

He gasped in mock shock at her accusation. "'Threw, themselves?' I don't know about that—"

"Oh stop pretending to be innocent, you know I'm right," she interrupted. "They had their hands all over you!"

She stopped then, and Branson felt his own face flood with color, because as she said this, her own hands were pressed against his chest, while his arms were around her shoulders…

"I…" she seemed at an utter loss. "I…I mean…" she swallowed and looked up at him, trying to joke, despite the thudding sound that he swore was more than just his own heart. "I mean…it's hardly fair," she began. "You promised to show me off, and teach me an Irish jig—well before the War, when you wrote to me while I was in London last year…"

He remembered. God, how could he forget? He was simply stunned that _she_ remembered too!

"I apologize," he murmured, when he finally found his voice. "I would gladly teach you now, if your ankle allowed."

She blushed even brighter, and looked down at her hands, which were still resting against his chest. "There…there are other dances…" her voice had become so soft, he swore it was a whisper. "Ones that…that don't require a great deal of steps…"

The world seemed to be slowing down. Was this a dream? God, he hoped not. If it were, please, don't let him wake!

"I…I'm afraid I don't know those dances," he whispered back. "But…perhaps if you teach me?"

She looked at him through hooded lashes, and he felt his throat go dry and his palms begin to sweat.

"They're very simple," she began to explain. "I…I don't even know if they can be regarded as dancing…the couple simply…lean…against one another…and…and sway to the music…"

As if by some unforeseen magic, his arms moved instinctively as she spoke from her shoulders…down to her waist…and her own lifted from the front of his chest…to his shoulders…and then he felt them loop around his neck. Her body was pressed against his…and that mysterious magic continued working its spell, for he realized they were beginning to sway to the drumbeat of his heart.

"Like this?" he asked. She nodded her head. His arms tightened around her waist. "Lean against me if need be," he whispered. She was already doing so, but he wanted to feel more of her. "Don't put any pressure on your ankle. I've got you…"

He could feel her fingers snaking up along the back of his neck, into his hair. God, how many times had he dreamed this? How many times had he prayed for this? Truly, it was a Christmas miracle! "Sybil…" he found himself whispering her name. Her eyes found his and moved back and forth between his own, and his lips…just as his eyes were doing to hers.

His heart was screaming, _"NOW!"_ and he could feel himself bending his head towards hers…

* * *

><p>"Milady!"<p>

Sybil gasped and her head snapped back so quickly she thought she could have whiplash. Anna's voice could be heard, quietly calling out her name as she quickly moved across the gravel drive. Both she and Branson stared at each other in surprise, before pushing away, only so much so as not to reveal their…dancing.

"Milady!" Anna called again. "The servant's hall is empty, and your room is ready, I—" Anna paused as she entered the garage then, seeing Sybil holding onto Branson's shoulders. However, it only looked as if he were helping her stand…rather than…well, than…anything else.

Good God, what had gotten into her? The champagne, it _had_ to be the champagne…yes?

"Thank you, Anna," Sybil murmured, putting on a grateful smile as she hobbled towards the head housemaid. Her skin felt as if it was on fire, but she willed herself not to reveal any blush before Anna. She turned and glanced back at Branson, before allowing Anna to lead her away. "Goodnight…" she murmured, feeling awful for what had nearly happened. In her drunken state, she had engaged in a fantasy that had haunted her dreams on multiple occasions, but one that she knew was dangerous to be brought to reality; dangerous for his job…and dangerous for her heart.

"Goodnight, milady," he merely replied. She winced at the sound. Was it pain that she heard? Or humiliated strain? Oh heaven help her, how was she supposed to face him now, after everything that happened tonight? She was glad they had renewed their friendship, but then her silliness had nearly ruined it once more! _Perhaps it's already too late? _The thought brought tears to her eyes. Yes…perhaps it was; no matter how hard she wished it, perhaps it was too late for the two of them to go back to how they once had been?

_But is that what you really want?_

She chastised the voice quickly. It didn't matter what she wanted…she knew what was necessary. And this…this…_girlish fantasy_, needed to end.

Anna helped her to her room, out of her dress, into her nightgown, and then into bed. "It was a lovely day," Anna happily whispered.

Sybil settled back against her pillows and gazed up at the ceiling overhead. "Yes, I suppose it was." Despite her sprained ankle, her sudden sickness brought on by drinking far too much, and her confused feelings…it had been a lovely day. Gwen was happily married, she had the opportunity to see and speak with her once again, and wish her joy…and despite the awkward circumstances, she finally had the chance to dance with Branson.

1916 was only a week away, and with it she knew she would have to make a heart breaking resolution. But she knew it was for the best in the end.

Until then, however, she would allow herself to dream and enjoy what could only be described as her happiest Christmas at Downton Abbey.


	10. Winter, 1916 part 1

_Once again, thank you to everyone who has been patient and understanding in the slow updates, and for sticking with these two stories! I'm nearly done with this one (only 2 more chapters left!), so I'm probably going to dedicate my next few updates to it before updating "Love's Journey". Thanks again for the lovely feedback! Please continue to let me know your thoughts!_

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

_Winter 1916 (part 1)_

January 29, 1916

It's happened…

The thing I have been dreading ever since this bloody war started…

Conscription.

There were rumors for weeks, even before the New Year began, that it would come into being. As far back as last November, I remember overhearing Papa on the telephone in his library, talking with someone about the possibility. Ever since then, I have been scouring the papers, trying to find any news; such an announcement would be a front page headline, but that doesn't mean I haven't been checking every other minuscule article, front and back.

Oh God…Conscription. Oh God…Branson…

Parliament passed the decision two days ago. It was in the papers yesterday, but I didn't learn about it until today because I was with Branson…

Well, not _with_ Branson, I mean, he was driving me to Malton, for one of my…oh what does it matter? All of my charities seem to be alike anymore; I'm even starting to wonder if they're doing any good? But…I must confess, I have been looking for any excuse for him to drive me, even if it's a short distance for a simple errand. I know, I know, this is very contradictory of what I had vowed at New Years, to begin this year anew and…and…and to "put away" _childish_ dreams and fantasies...

But it's so hard! Especially when he looks at me with that slight curl of a smile, and I can see the teasing humor dancing in his eyes…

And I still remember, of course (how could I forget?) our…well, our "dance", in the garage. Neither of us have mentioned the incident, but there were several days—oh heavens, weeks really—where I struggled with looking at him, and when I did meet his eyes, my cheeks instantly betrayed me and turned a ghastly shade of fuchsia, which no doubt causes him to chuckle endlessly when he's alone.

But now, with this news of Conscription…I can't bear the thought of missing any opportunity to be with…to be with my _friend_. Yes, I should be safe so long as I keep reminding myself that; Branson, my _friend_.

This act of Parliament is being called the "Military Service Act"—all able-bodied men between the ages of 18 to 41 are liable to be called up to serve. The only exclusions are men who are widowed with children, serving in the Navy or working in another reserved occupation, a clergyman, or…or married. However, I have heard Papa murmur that he wonders how long those "restrictions" will last. The news we receive from the front has not been good. Despite what all the patriots and war hawks want us to believe, England and its allies _are_ struggling.

Needless to say, this news has certainly put me in a sour mood. But tonight, at dinner…

Oh I could just…I could simply STRANGLE Edith for her insensitive remarks!

She actually had the gall to turn to Papa, and ask for permission to receive driving lessons!

We were all in the midst of eating our soup when she made the request, and I remember every head popping up with a look of utter shock. But my spoon was the only one that clattered against its bowl.

Oh Lord, I remember everything…

"_Why on earth do you want driving lessons?"_

I think Papa was more surprised by my question than by Edith's request.

"_Why? Because it makes perfect sense, don't you think?"_

"_No, I don't see how it makes perfect sense!"_ Lord, I sounded like a snake, hissing my reply. Mary was sitting next to me and tried to put a calming hand over mine, but I was having none of it. I simply continued glaring at Edith. _"There's no need, we have a perfectly good chauffeur!"_

Papa tried to intervene, but I paid no attention. Neither did Edith.

"_Oh come now, Sybil, don't be so naïve; we've had to make do with less and less footmen since the War started. Is it so strange anymore to have maids in the dining room?"_

I can only imagine Carson's tremor of disapproval, not for Edith's remarks, but because he can't stand the thought of doing things "improperly", including having women do "men's jobs" as he sees it.

"_Now that Parliament has passed this act of conscription, we must come to terms with the reality that sooner or later, we will be without a chauffeur."_

My hands gripped the table so hard, I'm sure my fingers left indentations.

"_Have you even read the article, Edith? The act will not become law until March—"_

"_All the more reason for Branson to teach me now, before he's called up. Oh don't look at me like that Sybil; you know it's bound to happen, he's young and strong and very able-bodied—"_

…I don't know what Edith said after that, because I had risen from the table, not caring that my napkin had fallen to the floor or that I was making a great fuss. I didn't listen to Mama or Papa as they called after me, I simply stalked back to my room, my appetite completely gone…and here I have been, the last few hours.

Mama tried to see me, but I didn't open the door; I simply lied and told her I had a severe headache.

Mary took more convincing. Unlike Mama, she did come into my room despite my excuses, and insisted on knowing what my "irrational" behavior at dinner was all about. As with Mama, I also lied, telling her that it just upset me, listening to Edith's "unfeeling manner". These are people's lives! And the way she spoke was as if they were cattle being sent to market.

I suppose it wasn't too much of a lie; I do think Edith was being rather unfeeling in her request and explanation…and neither of my sisters can resist an opportunity to complain about the other, so at Edith's expense, I was able to distract Mary from questioning my outburst any further.

I'm still reeling with anger!

Branson hasn't even received a letter in the post, and already she's eager to take his job!

…

…

Alright, I suppose now I truly am being "irrational". I know Edith doesn't want to replace him, and despite my feelings at the moment, I also know, deep down, that she doesn't have a vendetta against him.

But it frightens me…

It has always frightened me, the idea that one day I could wake up…and he won't be here.

I know that Mary and Matthew have not parted well, but I also know, despite this charade that the two of them are putting on, that Mary truly does care for Matthew…and that she misses him and worries about him, constantly.

I know I would be the same way with Branson.

I wouldn't be able to sleep, knowing that he was spending the night in some cold and dark trench. I wouldn't be able to eat, knowing that his meals are meager and far between. I wouldn't be able to breathe…knowing that at any moment, he could be choking on poison gas.

…And God help me, I don't know what I would do, if _that_ letter came to Downton.

…Oh Lord, _would it come?_ I mean, we're not his family, at least not in the eyes of the government. Oh God, what if something happened to him, and they sent word to his family in Ireland, but…but…never sent word here…to me?

…

…

STOP IT! I can't keep thinking like this! It will do no good; only drive me further into worried madness!

I wish I could go to him. I want to speak to him so desperately. I want him to tease me and tell me that I have nothing to be worried about, that I'm being silly, and hear him chuckle when I tell him what Edith said tonight at dinner, that she would like to take driving lessons.

…It's so tempting, to do just that, to go to him right now…

But he would be asleep, surely. And…and I could never go to his cottage. What would he think of me?

Alright, alright, I just need to calm down. Worrying does little good for anyone.

Tomorrow…I will seek him out tomorrow, and learn what he thinks of this whole matter. Branson has never been one to shy away from sharing his opinions on anything political! And things always seem better, no matter what the subject is…things always seem better after talking to him.

Of course, I won't tell him _everything_ that I've been thinking…

Needless to say…


	11. Winter, 1916 part 2

_Sorry for the delay! Things got busy, "real world" issues, blah, blah, blah-you've heard it all before. Thank you for your patience and for the continued support and feedback! This particular story is almost finished, so I will begin writing Chapter 12 ASAP and hope to have it posted by the end of the upcoming weekend. Thanks again and I hope you enjoy..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<strong>

_Winter 1916 (part 2)_

Dear Mother,

I pray this letter eases the worry to which you wrote to me about. I tried to write back as soon as I could, but as you can understand, the War has made it difficult in sending and receiving post. I only hope that it arrived as quickly as possible, although I'm sure in your mind, no letter can ever arrive fast enough.

I know that you're worried. And I know that you're scared. But we can't be too surprised by this news of conscription. We knew it was only a matter of time, especially considering…well, I won't go into that. If truth be told, I'm surprised it took this long before conscription came to pass. They've been talking about it for months in the papers, but…well, it doesn't matter. The point of the fact is, conscription is here, and by March, it will officially become law.

…Forgive me, Mother, for…well, for the "chilliness" of my tone. I know that you wrote to me out of a sense of urgency, worried about the possibility that perhaps I too may be called up to join His Majesty's forces…and believe me, that thought has long been on my mind, even before the matter of conscription was even whispered in the papers. But…I'm sorry, I…I can't come home, not yet at least…

No doubt you're throwing your hands up into the air and shouting various obscenities to the sky (hopefully the girls are out of earshot). I know, I know, it does make sense of a sort, me returning to Ireland; because of the political climate there, Parliament has had the "decency", so to speak, to keep the entire conscription business out of Ireland…at least for the time being.

But come now, Mother…how long do you think that will last? Am I truly better off back in Dublin? For the time being, perhaps, but how long will that last? A month? Two months? The rest of the year? Do you think this war will be over before next February? We can certainly hope and pray that it will, but based on the amount of news I keep reading, I fear the end truly is nowhere in sight. No, if the need arises, and surely it will…Parliament will enforce the Military Service Act on Ireland, political climate be damned. I'm sorry Mother, I know that sounds harsh and uncaring…but we are only fooling ourselves if we think that Irishmen will be spared simply because we reside in Ireland for the time being.

…No doubt you despise me for saying that. And for the pain my words have caused you, I truly am sorry. But this war has heightened my cynicism, and I see no point in ignoring hardened truths.

Besides (and I know you will hate me for saying this)…we need the money. Despite the War, the Earl of Grantham continues to pay all of us very well, and during this time of rationing, we need whatever funds we can get our hands on. If I leave this job, what opportunities await me in Dublin? The need for work isn't scarce, but the money to pay those workers, is. Can you think of any job back home that will pay _half_ as well as my job at Downton Abbey?

I know, I know, no doubt you are shaking your head, shouting a few more obscenities, before muttering about how "you don't care about the money", and Mother—I believe you.

…But _I_ care. Meaning, I care about the welfare of my family. I care about all of you having food on the table, clothes on your back, and heat in the house. I care about all of you being able to stay healthy during this long, cold winter. I care about my baby sisters continuing their schooling and receiving the best education possible—yes, even for girls, because as you know, I have always believed that boys and girls, men and women, are equals and should be treated as such when it comes to knowledge and learning. I care about Frank, staying as far away from this silly war as possible, and supporting his apprenticeship and perhaps one day the possibility that he can go to university. I care about you; having enough so you can go to sleep comfortably, not worrying about every single bill that comes in the post, creating anxiety that forces you to work your fingers raw.

I know that you worry about me. You worry because you love me. And please know, I love you—all of you, and I haven't forgotten my family or who I am or where I come from. I haven't…and I _do_ miss you all, terribly.

But I'm staying here. At least…for a little longer.

…And, forgive me for bringing this up, but I should—if the call does come…you know how I will respond. We talked about it last year, when I came for Christmas. I've mentioned it to you in some previous letters…and I remain firm in my belief. I know you don't like it, but I do think you're much more in favor of _that_ than of me going to battle. I only hope and pray that you and the rest of our family understand my reasons…and don't think them cowardly or shameful.

But who knows! Maybe it will all come to nothing, maybe I won't receive a letter, maybe my name will be skipped altogether. Maybe the War will end by the summer…

See? I'm attempting optimism. As you would say, all we can do is pray.

Well…that's that, I suppose. I pray to hear from you soon, even if it's a letter filled with nothing but curses. But I promise to write you more frequently, even between replies. You'll be so tired of reading my letters you may find yourself glad that I'm in Yorkshire!

Did I earn a smile? Or will there be a slap awaiting me for that bit of cheek?

Well, I'm beginning to run low on paper, so I should send this…but let me finish by sharing this funny story.

I was approached the other day by Lady Edith, his Lordship's second daughter. She told me she wanted me to teach her…how to drive!

Did your mouth fall open? I confess, I think mine had when she told me! Yes, she believes it would be wise that she learn how to drive a car, and his Lordship granted her permission after several weeks of consideration. So there you have it; on top of my usual duties, I will also become a driving instructor! Hmmm, perhaps you should pray for my safety…

I'll be sure to write you again very soon, and with more details about this business of teaching Lady Edith to drive. I must confess, I think what surprised me the most was that _she_ requested the lessons. Out of all of his Lordship's daughters, I never thought she would ask for such a thing. Indeed, it strikes me as something that Sybil would—

I mean, _Lady_ Sybil, his Lordship's youngest daughter, is much more...progressive…than her elder sisters. Meaning, I could envision her requesting lessons, certainly more so than Lady Edith, but…well…um…there you have it.

Mother, please give all of my love to everyone. Despite what you may think, _I do _think of you all and pray for you all and miss you all. _Even_ Uncle Michael.

I will write again, very soon. I eagerly await your letter too.

All of my love,

—Tom


	12. Spring, 1916

_Here it is...the final chapter to "Stepping Stones". _

_THANK YOU to everyone who has been following this companion piece to "Love's Journey"; thank you to all those who left comments, to those that followed it through story alerts, to those that added it to their favorite lists, and to the many, many readers who stumbled across it and followed it to this point. I hope you have enjoyed my exploration into those "missing years" between Seasons 1 & 2 of "Downton". It has been fun writing it, and I look forward to jumping back, with both feet, into "Love's Journey". If you haven't read that story, I hope you will consider it. But either way, THANK YOU for reading this._

_Please, if you are so kind, let me know what you think and leave a review! I really truly appreciate them! And without further ado...the final chapter..._

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><p><strong>Chapter Twelve<strong>

_Spring 1916_

_To Mr. Tom Branson [STOP] Downton Abbey, Yorkshire—_

_With deepest sadness regret to inform you [STOP] Martin was killed two days ago [STOP] shot during the Rising on North King's Street [STOP] little is known why [STOP] Uncle Michael had a stroke when he heard [STOP] please send word as soon as possible [STOP] _

Five times.

He had read his sister's telegram five times, and he still couldn't digest the news fully.

_Martin is dead._

He had just finished washing the Renault, when Daisy came rushing across the gravel drive, her cheeks flushed and her brow moist with sweat. He was a little confused to see her at first; normally William was the one to fetch him if the car were needed, but he offered a pleasant smile nonetheless. However, that smile faded when she stopped before him, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip and her eyes filled with worry.

"This just arrived," she explained, holding out a trembling hand to him.

He looked down and noticed the small yellow envelope she held. The sort of envelope that telegrams arrived in.

"The messenger said it was urgent…and…and…" her eyes fell to the ground then. "And…he offered his sympathies."

Sympathies?

Branson felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he took the telegram from Daisy's hand. He could feel dread filling his very core.

"I…I'm sorry," she whispered, before grabbing her skirts and running back to the house, leaving him to read his telegram in private. Only…he wasn't sure he wanted to be left alone. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to open the blasted thing. The flimsy piece of paper felt like the heaviest of weights. But the anxiety about the telegram's contents would do him far more harm than confronting the dreaded news. Or so he had convinced himself.

He staggered back into the garage and quickly sat down on the bench as he tore open the envelope…and read Kathleen's urgent message.

_Martin is dead._

The first time he read it, he felt a terrible squeeze clench at his throat. The second time he read it, he felt bile rise up from his stomach. The third time, a strange, keening cry escaped the invisible, clenching fingers, and by the fourth time…he could barely read it, because his vision was blurred by the cold sting of tears.

Now, as he read it for the fifth time…he felt hollow.

_Martin is dead._

Martin…

Damn him.

WHAT WAS HE DOING ON NORTH KING STREET IN THE FIRST PLACE?

His flat was nowhere near the bloody place, and why was he out at all?

News about the Easter Rising had been difficult to find; it seemed no one in Yorkshire really cared about what was going on in Dublin, especially when all eyes were turned towards the Continent. For weeks his mother had written to him about the tensions rising in Dublin, about how there were rumors that the rebels were planning something, some kind of uprising against the British soldiers. Branson wanted Ireland to win her independence, absolutely; but at what cost? He chastised himself later for having such thoughts; revolutions weren't won without serious action. However, he found himself wondering, again, if brutality justified those actions?

Every morning, as soon as Mr. Carson was finished with the paper, Branson would roam its pages, trying to see if there was any news about anything happening in Ireland.

And on the first Tuesday after Easter Sunday…he found it.

It wasn't a tiny article, but by no means was it eye-catching, either. The editors certainly didn't give it the worthiness of the front page. He scanned the article quickly, and then read it again slowly to soak up every detail. They were calling it "The Easter Rising".

He had to admit, he felt his heart swell with pride.

And then it began to plummet as he read about the number of civilians caught in the crossfire.

It seemed that war, no matter which side of the ocean it was fought, had a way for making the innocent suffer the worst.

That had been two days ago.

Every day since, he scoured the papers, looking for more articles, more news about the Easter Rising, and praying that the list of causalities would lessen—but they never did.

He would glance up at Mr. Carson, wondering if he had read the article, wondering if he would say anything about those "Irish barbarians"…but he never did.

No one said anything…not even Sybil.

The Tuesday he had read the first article, she came to the garage, a bright smile on her face. One of her charities was making Easter baskets for children of deceased soldiers, and she had volunteered to help deliver them. Her official reason for the visit was to order the car, but as usual, she would take her place on the garage bench and begin prattling about whatever was on her mind.

He debated about interrupting her, and telling her about the news of the Rising, about his worries and fears for his family, as well as about his conflicted feelings over the "cost of freedom and justice". They had discussed Irish independence before, it was not a foreign topic; they were both careful not to insult the other's nationality, and Branson was glad he could openly talk about such things with her.

But for some reason…this time, he kept his mouth shut.

He told himself it was because he wanted _her_ to initiate the conversation; that he was waiting to see if she had made the discovery, waiting for her to come to him and ask after his family, after his own personal thoughts on what was happening…

But that was unfair. He later berated himself for thinking like that, and for not saying anything. He vowed to bring it up when he next had the opportunity, but he didn't see her the next day, or the day after. She was either busy with her charity, or helping her mother or grandmother or Mrs. Crawley with something. And when he wasn't passing the hours worrying about events going on back in his homeland while tinkering with an engine, he was worrying about his life and the safety of others, while beginning driving lessons with Lady Edith.

_Martin is dead. Shot and killed two days ago…_

"Damn you, Martin…" he hissed, the telegram crinkling in his trembling fist. "What were you DOING in the midst of all this, you bloody fool!"

"Branson?"

He froze at the sound of her voice.

No…no, no, no, he did NOT want to see _her_ now!

…He did not want her to see him _like this_; a blubbering mess.

"Branson?" she called again as she approached.

Had she been skipping? Her feet sounded so light and rhythmic upon the gravel drive. _Please, Sybil…just go away!_

"Oh! Good, I'm glad I found you, I thought maybe you and Edith…" her voice trailed off as she entered the garage, finding him with his back turned to her, his body hunched over, trembling in a desperate attempt to get himself and his emotions under control. "Branson?" her sweet voice which had been so light and gay was etched with concern. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he muttered, quickly rising to his feet and purposely moving across the garage to a darkened corner where she wouldn't be able to see his face, or the marks of tears that had once stained his cheeks.

She wasn't convinced. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, milady," he coughed, telling himself, again, to get his emotions in check. "Is there something you need?"

He avoided her eyes, but he could feel them burning into him. "No…" she murmured, before taking a tentative step towards him.

He nodded his head. "Does someone else need the car?"

Sybil shook her head. Under any other circumstances, between any other chauffeur and lady, that would be the end of the conversation.

But he and Sybil weren't like _those_ chauffeurs and ladies. And for the first time ever, he wished they were.

"Branson…what's wrong?"

"As I said before, nothing is wrong, milady."

He glanced up at her from the confines of his shadows and briefly caught her eye. She was not prepared to back down.

"Branson—"

"Milady, please—"

"Oh stop it with this 'milady' business! Something has happened, I know it! Please, why won't you tell me—"

"OH FOR GOD'S SAKE, WILL YOU DROP IT?"

His roar startled him just as much as it startled her. She had been advancing upon him but came to a halt, and may have even jumped back when he raised his voice. He cursed himself, both for taking his frustration out on her, as well as for drawing any further unwanted attention to the garage. They both stood frozen, his eyes on the floor, the sound of their breathing, heavy and labored, filling the void between them.

Finally, Sybil released a shaky breath before speaking. "Alright…" she whispered. "I'm sorry, I…I didn't mean to upset you—"

"No, please," he had to interrupt; he didn't deserve her apology. "I'm sorry…I shouldn't have shouted."

Another long silence passed between them. He carefully lifted his head, and felt his breath catch at the sweet concern he saw reflected in her eyes.

"Tom…"

Oh God, the way she said his name. It was both heart soaring and heart breaking.

"If I can help…in any way…" she was quietly, and gently beginning to approach him once more. "Even if it's just by sitting…and quietly listening…"

He knew he could trust her. He knew that he could pour out his pain and anger to her, that she wouldn't judge him too harshly if he began muttering curses in Gaelic against the British; she would know that it was his grief talking. _Why not tell her? Why not share with her your grief? Who better than she to understand? _He knew that if he started…he wouldn't be able to stop. He would show her the telegram, tell her how angry he was at Martin for being caught in the crossfire, for being stupid enough to be out while this was going on in the first place, for leaving a perfectly decent and well-paying job back in Devon, where he was _SAFE_ from all this!

He hated the soldiers who shot his cousin, who were occupying Dublin in the first place.

But at the same time, he hated the rebels too, hated them for causing such chaos that led to this bloodshed. Had it occurred to them that civilians would be killed too? Martin was no rebel! Did ANYONE pause to think about that possibility?

He wanted to rail against the injustice of it all. To shake his fists at God and curse the Almighty's name, before slamming them down, hard, on the car in front him, not caring if he left a dent. He wanted scream and tear at his hair and destroy something! And then he wanted to give in to the sobs that were threatening to burst, to crumble on the ground, his knees finally giving out, while he lost himself on a sea of tears.

…And maybe, just maybe…she would come to him then, and put her arms around him.

He would welcome her embrace. He would lean into her arms, and sob into her shoulder. To hell with what they said about men being stoic and keeping a "stiff upper lip" and all that nonsense. He was Irish; he was allowed to show his emotions and give in to passion every now and then. She wouldn't hold it against him if he cried. She wouldn't think him weak. No…his Sybil would hold him, gently rock him against her, and he would let her. He would cling to her and weep until the last ounce of grief had left his body. And even after that, he would probably still hold tight to her if he could and she allowed it. And if she didn't initiate the embrace…well, he would put his pride aside and crawl to her if need be. She wouldn't deny him then, surely? No, not his Sybil. Her heart was too big, too pure, and too good—she would take pity upon the poor wretch at her feet and hold him tight, he was sure of it.

_Tell her. Show her the telegram. She wants to help, LET HER!_

"Tom…?"

He looked at her and met her eyes; her beautiful, concerned, blue-gray eyes. And he opened his mouth to speak…

…But something inside him, something deep down, something that felt a strong kinship with his cousin…told him remain silent.

"Thank you, milady," he murmured, lowering his eyes once more. "But…I'm fine, truly. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to finish my work."

He winced at the coldness of his tone. He didn't dare look at her, coward that he was. He didn't have to; he could _feel_ the pain in her gaze.

She didn't say anything. She simply turned on her heel and left the garage, no backwards glance or dramatic exit, no stomping or muttering or cursing under her breath. Nothing. She simply did what he had asked…and left him alone.

_Well done._

Why had he done that? He didn't know…

No, that wasn't entirely true. He didn't invite her in because…there was some twisted part of him that felt he owed Martin this much.

Sybil knew about his cousin, but only in name. She knew that Martin once worked in Devon and had returned to Ireland shortly after the War started. And she knew that he and Martin were very close. But that was all. She didn't know their history, she didn't know the details about their childhoods, and she didn't know all the secrets he had shared with Martin, including the ones that involved her. She didn't know about the disagreement they both had when Martin announced his plans to return to Ireland, and Branson chose to stay behind. She didn't know that Martin thought him foolish for falling in love with a woman above his station. She didn't know that despite Martin's feelings on the matter…he still continued to write to his cousin over the last year and half about his hopes and dreams to one day have her love returned.

There were things he shared with Martin that no other living soul knew or ever would. There was a trust, deeper than any other bond he held with anyone else in his family. And right now…with this news about his death…that trust and that bond felt very, very sacred.

And for some strange reason…he felt he would be committing sacrilege if he said anything, even if it were sharing his grief with his dearest friend…and the woman he loved.

He sighed, and tossed the crumpled telegram into the rubbish heap. It would be a long time before she forgave him for this. She would either avoid him or return his coldness with her own, and he would deserve it.

Of course, there was the possibility that she would return and insist that he tell her the truth; she was stubborn enough to do just that, and he couldn't deny that he desperately wanted her to…

But he wouldn't get his hopes up.

_Martin is dead._

Damn him. Damn them. Damn the War, damn the revolution, oh God above, damn it all…including himself.

Indeed, damn himself for his own weakness and cowardice, not just for keeping his grief to himself, but for all the time he had wasted in pining for Lady Sybil Crawley rather than acting on his feelings.

_Your cousin just died, and that's all you can think about, you selfish git?_

He let out a growl, before climbing into one of the cars, not caring that he wasn't wearing his livery, or that he had no official errand to run, or that it wasn't even his car to do as he pleased…

He didn't care. He would deal with the consequences later. Right now, he just needed to get away.

Martin was a driver, just like him. And like Martin, Branson wanted—no, _needed_ to hear the engine screaming in his ears while the wind whipped against his face as he forced the car to accelerate faster than it had ever driven before.

And…maybe, somehow, Martin would feel it too.

**To Be Continued…**

_The story continues in Chapter 41 of "Love's Journey"..._


End file.
